Chasing doesn’t do it anymore,
so she shrinks and enlarges herself
time and again, figuring the rabbit
is bound for stew, anyway
and what good do hearts do
when they break like crackers
and crumble into the wind
that troubles a bleeding, purple sky?
Take the crown already,
says the Caterpillar, high as hell,
drooping his globular form
over protesting toadstools.
Curious and curiouser.
Her mouth, tight as a bow,
can barely form the words,
her teeth guarding language
ever since the Cat winked his last
and beat it for a more solemn place,
having had his full of madness.