Clade Song 7

The Hare

So much depends on a roadkill hare its body crushed into its last instant of spastic motion the bones an exotic geometry you can’t touch one joint to its trajectory its graven pelt opened pound for inch gnarled tread of an industrial tires spills the innards still hot not yet turned the bruised purple it is morning before the flies circle before the dull cloud of stench lowers the unknown culprit leaves a gray rubber line on the pavement and speeds away nobody was here to see this happen nobody asks where did a hare come from in this alleyway that ends in nothing it is the first time you ask is there wildness beneath this concrete river town the concrete six inches thick to thirty feet is there grass underneath is there another land within where hares run.