The desert hare looks me dead in the eyes

As I lean against a graveyard tree.

It is far from home,

But so am I.

It’s pupils narrow sideways, and it asks me:

Which one of your lives is this?

First? Second? Last?

There are flakes of dirt on your shoes from places that have died.

Did you?

Do you feel the cold wind blowing across the field?

Does all of you?

When are you going home?

It is a loop, my friend, that we cannot break

Doesn’t it madden you?

First, second, last.

Which one of your lives is this?

It tilts its head a millimeter.

The cold wind curls around the graveyard tree as I take a second to think.

I look the hare in the eye and respond:

Does it really matter?

Tiptoes running across underpass tarmac

Spinning in circles upon dead man’s ground.

We are here anyway, my friend

And many times do we wander.

Who cares, my friend? Does it really matter?

I dance all the same to the tunes from my walkman

And recite poetry to the headstones.

Who cares, my friend? Does it really matter?

First, second, last; All three at once

And ever do we wander.

Dancing on dead man’s ground, running down the tarmac.