A primitive assonance
turns into a song
Like eucalyptus leaves
start to wave with longing.
Most of us,
never having learned the techniques
Of turning words
out of dumb earth
And deeds
from spellbound people,
Just go about feeling the loss,
the continuous absence,
Of what, somehow, should be,
Until some rabbit comes along
from underneath the hedges
To symbolize what's larger
than we dimly realize;
We credit our eyes,
for what we carry
To someone, from somewhere.
After a time it will make sense,
The world will seem three-dimensional,
That is, we will submit
to the polity of its logic,
As if it exists,
as if existence is
Sufficient
to count as true.