I  walk
barefoot
in the summer,
down Wilshire,
from the La Brea
tar pits
to the beach,
on the soft
Los Angeles
asphalt,

& drift
without effort
through sunny
Marin valleys,
on the breeze
of ripening
black berries,

then distrack
myself
with Brother
Rabbit,

entrenching myself,
hand & foot,
in our self-
serving
banter,

in the pit
with the saber
tooth tiger
& wooly
mammoth,

to be rolled
 
across new roads
in the jangle
of growing
children
& a family
& a job,

to be caste
aside
into the dust
by the wayside,

& left
to stare barefoot
into the black
berry patch,

waiting
(fists clenched)
for the miracle,
for Brother
Rabbit
to reappear

so his death
may vindicate
my tar-
nished soul,

knowing
his thorns
wait for my leap
to strip the coat
of the hair
& the tar,

to draw the blood
from the flesh
& the flesh
 
from the bones,

to the tune
of Brother
Rabbit's
bedeviling
laughter—

"the truth
is the light:

the dust
& the tar
& the blood
& the rabbit
& the fox
& I
are one."