Wrestling Rabbits and Dreams

I gasp in his waters, awaiting composure,
and I am found wanting, wanting more
of his ebb and flow that washes away
my brazen a Capella of identity,
that I cling too like a rabbit
clings to her virginal, white fur.

It's autumn, and in the calm before the storm,
when the last rays of a dying sun have set
and a dubious wind picks up, echoing,
"Failure!
    Failure!"

Brazenly, I step out of the paleness of my skin
as my heart ventures forth, unprotected and insecure.

His waters fall soft and warm.
I bathe in his falls of light,
warming me, touching, caressing,
I give up this good night.

In the warmth of his firelight crackling,
his voice collective, calming, divine,
he reads me the poem of him,
and I dream...
Oh, how I dream.

Chasing my dreams into sleep
before the cold winds of failure
swoop down on me of She-wolves.
" They will come,
    they always come."

And I'll wrestle that rabbit for the purpose of fur.

I sleep with my head on his lap
and as he bows to kiss my blush
the harsh winds slow and falter
while I sleep like reflections on calm water,
and I dream...
    Oh, how I dream.