Rabbit, Dead

The first time I saw him,
he looked at me sideways.
"I see you are running,"
he said by his manner;
"I'll show you some running."

With feet really fingers
he practiced some capers
displaying his form
like compulsory figures,
then danced to the distance,

the arrogant bastard.

Now he lies quiet,
not trampled or eaten,
exactly as lovely,
except where the flies
have been making their quarry,

(those are holes
that were his eyes)

and never a quiver
betrays an intention
of anymore running.

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Conrad Geller has been a poet since Harry Truman was president. More than a hundred of his poems have appeared in print and electronic media, and his prizes include the Bibliophilos Prize, the Charles Prize, and various awards from the Poetry Society of Virginia. A Bostonian by birth and preference, he is now living in Northern Virginia.