A guy comes to you and says “The pages
in my book are like rabbits, hiding
when they should hurry, late. I haven’t
had a birthday in two years.” Your head hears
how far his moustache stoops to duck words.
So all things now do speak his face
and the streetlamps gush its last remains.
Where did the moustache learn that tune?
“I grew my moustache to feel more
like a rabbit, whose whiskers tell him
where to go. I want to know where
to go.” You want him to shut his mouth
about rabbits, want to kiss his moustache
instead of watching it always grow.
“Your skin needs more fur, then I’d stay and laugh
with you, at the alphabet and ghouls,
but the dream radiates its own problems.
And one of them is you.”