Dear Rabbit,

Why are there so few paintings of you in the national gallery? Unless I am mistaken, you were
called, Autumn Rhythm, Green on Blue, The Betrothal, and Le Viol. Everything but rabbit.

I was particularly offended, when perplexedly strolling along, I came to the one they called,
The Head of a Woman, after you. But I guess we are too young to remember the days when
paintings of rabbits that did not necessarily look like rabbits were simply called rabbits. Perhaps
too many came too soon.

Painters paint rabbits like rabbits.

Still, I enjoyed looking. I hopped a staccato mile through the galleries, to stop-and-go study
you. Are you offended? Everyone wants to know. Stop and go, stop and go. The galleries are
convenient at least.

Will you run for president this year? God, I hope. I miss hearing your rabbit voice, your rabbit
on rabbit off. The un-rabbit sound they correct you with is deafening. Did you see who leaps
among the hills now? The natives aren't restless because they are none. Something grassy must
be done.

After the news I can't walk away. I stand behind the trees. I just stand there. I can see the
galleries through the hills and who leaps there. After this I like things like hills and grass and
leaping. I consider everything as carefully as you are.

The galleries are so full of you, but leave useless clues. Rabbit ears fastened to their rooftops act
like some preternatural worship. They don't pick up my complaints.

I have so many complaints.

Luckily, the computers in our area are friendly. Through them I have heard exciting rumors. I
have thrown the dry recitative mentions of our failed efforts under the screen, and watch them
divide to their smallest parts. Here, you ask. Here. Mentions of a future fall fall where they
should.

Into the rabbit holes of digital anthems. Of course, with you in mind;

I am watching my step.
In my view neither consumers’ goods nor contraband are swift enough to move without force.
The destruction of evidence of God is proof; or how do we expect corn gets to where corn
doesn’t grow? And how long did the traveling salesman know?

Sway, sway (all day every day):

Right Rabbit?

Which virtue was it that supplied the congregation with enough fear to cast out the possibility
of God’s love for homosexuals and work-a-day perverts? Most of that original tenderness has
hardened. Is economy of such things so necessary? Economy has nothing to do with ecosystems
anyway, systems of down to earthiness. Systems of fever, safety, sovereignty. There are lessons
to cure this; but they are an endless quiz. Like the one the congregation (also referred to as the
survivors) have creeping up on them. It is sad to watch them gape that way. Frozenly gaping
into that terrible hole in their rhapsodic glut. What’s down there anyway?

Do you know rabbit?

In your line of work, as master craftsman of triangular psalms and fleets of supplication, what
do you consider is your dearest virtue? Velum, veil or sail?

Are you really wedded to your poverty so much Rabbit?

I do not mean to exploit the nomad Rabbit, but during my sagacious rummagings I found warm
dovetails hugging the mud of deep doors, and recognized in them the polilineal—and
innocently faceted—shapes of our prairie tribe. I found they resembled visages of a vagrant
geometric heaven, almost appearing in conference—or confluence with our most tender will.
An amity of cruel purity and heroic violence, between which fleeting nuances shuddered like
the restless hearts of worker bees.

You agree that broken matters reign on this plain don’t you?

Which one do you want to be first Rabbit? Jesus or God? Remember, most rabbits would rather
reach for a remnant than pray toward the rising fog each morn. But believe me, I’m all set. I
mean, we are all all set. Either way, I heard someone say that God is dead you know? I heard
someone wrote it. Heard it was published. Think I’ve got a copy or two stored in my hutch.

I miss you. Rabbit, but I know you and I are impossible without love.

When bird came by today I made it a point to ask how good it was to live in a nest this size, and
bird just answered, “Chirp.” Honestly Rabbit; you know how bird is always mocking.

Nothing more was said between us. She cocked her head, and then flapped her wings a few
times and was gone out the nearest open window. Back into the wild blue.

I wasn’t kidding when I said I didn’t know what the world was coming to. But I keep hopping. I
put all my memories of you; the way you smell, the way you taste, the way you cry –in my
hindgut for best keeping. Please don’t feel guilty having to hang your music upside down in
your hole, Rabbit. Your big big hole of a house.