I’d argue some plants prefer gray sky
over sunlight. And some clouds long
to dissipate à la kamikaze ice crystals.
And just because you claim to have
the magic touch, doesn’t mean you
can pull a rabbit from your hatchback.
Sometimes seeing is bereaving, and
pulling the wool over someone’s eyes
or fleecing them begs to ask why the
sheep became a symbol of deception
when it stands for sacrifice in the Bible.
I understand natural selection, but I’m
lost when it comes to how long leftovers
can survive in the fridge and why dogs
are no longer named Fido. I marvel at
the way growth occurs with drops that
aren’t distributed to scale and at those
who can keep anything alive during
personal droughts as if horticulture
chooses the resiliency of roots. And
when I’m absorbing too much darkness
and dehydration, I whisper, Abracadabra,
as if any second a bunny will spring out
from the Civic.