The Rabbit Around The Imperfect Rock Garden

If I go away now into plaid and silver dreams to
Sleep upon what else I know,
There will be no use of you trying to find me,
No classical illusions to the warm vase of your neck,
No marks to denote where the roses or my fangs
Have pressed:
The sky will just come as lackadaisical and as slow
As a snail,
Like a small house in a very confined yard which will
Squeeze the cleavages of hyperventilating housewives,
Like gold fish in plastic bags;
And there will be nothing that can be done for them:
Their months will never end: their stomachs will stay just
As premature as ill-begotten cantaloupe,
And what they have to steal today will remain wide open
Still waiting to be stolen tomorrow or yesterday;
It will be like Easter, every young brother and sister so finely
Dressed in gray; but it will lack muster and bright bouquet,
And the dog will chase the rabbit around the imperfect
Rock garden,
But none of us will ever be able to capture our prey.