For Gavin
Of all your incarnations—
from growling Siva to
pipe blowing Pan,
to Miss Emily Dick-
inson, who borrows your
mouth, occasionally,
whispering suggestions
into my pink, erect
blushingly sensitive
rabbit ears—this curious
blend of personnae—
Adam and Hadrian—
animal man and Roman
emperor—suits
your affections best.
No fig leaves for you,
no Eden either, now
painfully aware how
booby-trapped apples
tend to explode.
You mind your mattock,
count your chickens,
look after your goats,
having learned the hard
way about gardens:
you acknowledge your
past, then bathe
your ass. Paradise—
you have other things—
other concerns. Like Eve,
you are a busy man.
you have concrete
to pour—a Mundus
Cuniculi—a Bunny
World to build—
a legacy to leave
behind for all
the furry creatures
who have been nursed
in your lap, called
your pubic bone
a home. I think
when you depart this
volcanic island
sanctuary, Maui, for
the life hereafter, Black
Mountain, North
Carolina, no one
will feel abandoned by
an absconded God
goofing off in Asheville.
Bunny World will
remain: evidence a
few emperors exist
besides Caligula.
I bet, in the future,
small mammals will regard
your works with wonder, like
lost hikers do the wall
of Hadrian. (Who,
you know, was gay.)
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