I felt the need to rewrite it.
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rabbit grows roots

I want something
real bad
but I don't know
what it is

I am pacing
without moving
always late
for a show
that's never
been performed
in a cavernous hall
that never was built

And the
closest I can get
to the music
is to study
with my round, pink eyes
the rippled woodgrain
and fine lacquered lines
of instruments
that are waiting
to be invented
so they can
play songs
that have yet
to be written

The lettuces
and the waiters
are long gone so
ever hungry
I dine
on the memory
of the sound
of cutlery scraping
fine china plates
whose clay
has not yet
been dug
from the ground

Having paused
too long
I find I have
become a vine
rooted in the soil
in the garden
of seasons yet to come

My fur
shall never
turn to flower
I will have no
technicolored perfumed
petals to unfurl
all pointy and licking
at clouds and sky
but my fine new roots
will spread and know
the carroty secrets
deep within
the rocks
of this place
this place
that isn't here

Aboveground
unable and
unwilling to move
the incidental
days and nights
race around me
like a rushing
blinking river
blink
blink

Belowground
where none can see
my roots keep pace
with the swirling
twirling flow of
days and nights
deeper growing
closer to knowing
whether the garden and I
belong to the gardener
or we both
belong to the
garden

I want something
real bad
but I don't know
what it is

I don't, I don't
I don't know
what it is