Earlier, a hare sunk her haunches
into the snow
and kept still long enough to vanish.
When she became fog,
you were at the throat of a frozen river
and saw, somehow, yourself unbloom.
You know what it means to slink
into another noun,
you know how to pull down a tree
with only your teeth,
jaws snapping roots until fingernails
can pick away the clay.
You know what it means
to unhome a body,
to collapse a pillar that may have, one day,
become a tower.
This will always be your first line
clipping your longings until you billow
loosening your reflection from winter ice,
staying hare still
until there are no trees left at all.