The sill plays a cruel joke—thrones me. Frames me
lording over lawn mower stripes—myself
in a shallow trench. In grass blades. Myself
persisting, despite a dickhead sun—me
in chlorophyll. Early, I find myself
swaying—me! in the black chokeberry, me!
in the rabbit’s throat. Me, the rabbit. Me
dancing out pellets. Out-dancing myself—
my father’s pellet gun, the hawk. The joke
is a bright belly full of dark hopping
along my father’s garden & the joke
small, between wrapped talons, is the hawking
too, is the axe sun, swift, rising, this joy.
This joy, it swallows itself far too soon!