Jackalope
Something must have mothered me,
Rare as I am, shy of light as I am.
When evening comes - purple cleft and plow,
Stain of night birds, shadow trees hobbling
The far rise - I come looking for my own kind,
Looking for you, jackalope. They say
You're stitched from two sad animals,
That you're mongrel and luminous,
That your sob is
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(i love it) (i hate it)
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It hasn't aged well.
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