Corey Marks
The rock that is not a rabbit suns itself
in the field, its brown coat that isn't fur
furred with light. The rock that isn't a rabbit
would be warm to a palm but wouldn't
quicken or strain from touch. It doesn't ache
with hunger or pine with rabbit-lust,
doesn't breathe the world in, translating
scent into some rabbit understanding.
The world is beyond its understanding.
And yet the rock that is not a rabbit will
outlast the hawk banking above, the fox
sloughing free of its den, the wheel nicking
off the road to disturb the gravel berm,
the mower coughing up the neighbor's yard.
Even so, its ears fold back against its body
as if to make itself small, a secret,
though when a breeze disorders the grass,
the rock's stillness appears like wild motion.
from the journal 32 POEMS
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Not far from my house the rock in “The Rock that Is Not a Rabbit” sat in a yard beneath a few narrow pines. Its huddled shape peaked above unruly grass would catch my eye when I passed. I began to look to for it, a small ritual along my walk. Then last summer, after I’d been away for weeks, I found the trees cut down in my absence, and the rock removed.

Corey Marks on "The Rock that Is Not a Rabbit"
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