Hour of The Jackalope

Today He came burrowing up, past the bashful arthropods

and quiet birthstones, breaking into a toadstool town.

This secret gift of every millennium.

No lady lilies screamed, He arrived

only on business. If you ask the march hares

politely over two lump tea they’d say how:

His platonic eyes

blinked exactly ninety-nine blinks when

meeting the first geodesic glares,

His sanguine ears

drooped onto weed and wood to test

the peripheral vessels of this earth,

His marble nose

puffed a nebula that colored each

listless leaf past the garden wall,

His gossamer whiskers

read the energy of the westerlies to

pinpoint the hobgoblin of this time.

But it was those aurora bones treasured

atop His head, the pair trimmed

by Zion clippers, sprinkled

in a Shangri-La dew, and

cropped from the riverbanks of Eden,

that luminated a planetary wish.

For the ventilator slaves, His word fixed the wheel of fortune

to land upright on great sphinx toes. After it

was so He tunneled back, past the erosion and stalactite

halls, slipped beyond elemental fabric, into a nova

nook to sleep after this apocalypse and awake on the next.