A rabbit in the snow—or Buddha—
are both about holding.
The problem is one of disposal.
To have—as a privilege—
a sort of minimum.
This is the problem of the soul.
To keep back from use, to pray
a hand to stay distinctions,
to have in the mind
remains fastened by love,
what may prick its
ears because of the dead
intended action. A captive
made by getting out. A prison
of interruption in place—
in time—to save the motionless glance back.