^{translated from the Japanese by William George Aston}

An ancient pond!
With a sound from the water
Of the frog as it plunges in.

for Tarfia and Fita

             The rabbit has a funny set of tools. He jumps.

             or kicks. muffled and punching up. In pose

             the rabbit knows, each side of his face to whom.

             he should belong. He hobbles and eyes. This

             is the dumb bun allegiance. This bunny, even dry and fluff

             is aware, be vicious. will bite down your finger stalk.

             will nick you good in the cheery web of your palm.

             Those claws are good for traction. and defense.

             This bunny, forgive him. There is no ease. His lack

             of neck is all the senses about a stillness.

             stuck in a calm. until household numbers upend

             his floor. until the family upsets the nest

             and traipses off. Then stuck in a bunny panic.

             We each stab at gratitude. In our nubbing, none

             of us do well. We jump. We kangaroo. We soft seeming,

             scatter and gnaw. Maybe the only way forward

             is to sleep all day. one eye open. under the sink.

             Like the rabbit, we could sit in our shit.

             Chew at the leaf of others’ dinner. Make

             of each tile on the floor a good spot to piss. No,

             it doesn’t get much better. And like the rabbit

             we do not jump well from heights. We linger the dark

             until it is safe to come out. To offer a nose.

             a cheek for touch. the top of a crown. Nothing

             makes us happier than another rabbit.

What if the submarine

is praying for a way

it can poison the air,

in which some of them have

leaped for a few seconds,

felt its suffocating

rejected buoyancy.

Something floats above their

known world leading a wake

of uncountable death.

What if they organized

into a rebellion?

Now scientists have found

a group of octopuses

who seem to have a sense

of community, who

live in dwellings made of

gathered pebbles and shells,

who cooperate, who

defend an apparent

border. Perhaps they’ll have

a plan for the planet

in a millennium

or two. After we’re gone.

I dreamt        the spirit of the codfish:



          in rafters of the mind;



fly out into the winter’s



           blue night;



 mirth off alder       tendrils sashay;



 while I set up



             my winter tent;



 four panels long—beams suspend



 I sit & pull blubber strips             aged in a poke bag;



 I’m shadowing the sun                    as a new moon icicle



 time melts    when white                     hawks come.