Stephen Sturgeon

A guy comes to you and says “The pages

in my book are like rabbits, hiding


when they should hurry, late. I haven’t

had a birthday in two years.” Your head hears


how far his moustache stoops to duck words.

So all things now do speak his face


and the streetlamps gush its last remains.

Where did the moustache learn that tune?


 “I grew my moustache to feel more

like a rabbit, whose whiskers tell him


where to go. I want to know where

to go.” You want him to shut his mouth


about rabbits, want to kiss his moustache

instead of watching it always grow.


 “Your skin needs more fur, then I’d stay and laugh

with you, at the alphabet and ghouls,


but the dream radiates its own problems.

And one of them is you.”