Beautiful Old Man Rabbit

Rises behind the highest
Peak from canyon’s perspective,

Tiny new metal whiskers
On the chin this given month,

Not that you could make those out
From this far away on Earth.

Another night, another
Moon, another summer done.

You may only get a few,
But you get enough to feel

Their many-ness. That’s enough,
Beautiful old man rabbit,

More befitting those names than
Anything you’ve named with them.

Your Rebirth Culture

Say it runs the other way,
And you’re approaching your birth.
You don’t remember the date,

But you’re sure it’s getting near,
Possibly in a few months
Or maybe another year—

How long will you stay aware?
How long will you be yourself
Behind your babyish stare?

You know there’s nothing for it.
You’re headed to when you weren’t
You and nothing before it.

Just Another Ichnofossil

Although they’re often more haunting,
Even more poignant than the bones,

It’s true the fossilized footprints
And the outlines of empty homes

Tell you less about the bodies
Than the bodies themselves could tell.

What about texts and inscriptions?
No, they’re still less information,

However complementary,
Telling you what the corpses can’t.

Would you rather have Bronze Age scripts
Scratched in bones for divination

Or the desiccated remains
Of Ötzi, the bronze-skinned Ice Man?

That’s a tough one. Turn it around.
Imagine a skull still holding

A peat bog’s idea of a brain—
That would be a real fossil find.

But what happened to its thinking,
Its inheritance of language,

The living mind that occupied
The skull now nothing but a trace?