A blindfolded rhinoceros
is being lifted
out of the water.

It is important he doesn't see
what is going on.

Please pass it on:

please pass along
his blindfold
so we can be lifted, too.

Take us slowly from the flood,
the rising water
that threatens to wash
everything away.

The world keeps unraveling,
the riverbank
dissolving,
the blood flowing,

and the rhinoceros
had better keep
that blindfold on

because he is dangerous
if he sees what is dangerous.

Unlike a unicorn,
he is heavy and
clumsy and dumb.

He will crush someone
with his fear,
he will tear us apart
if he panics.

Raise him
gently,
lower him
gently
into a meadow
of cool waters.

Then pass along
the blindfold
so we can be lifted, too.

Raise us
out of the muck
onto a bed of grass,

pass the bright bandana

covering his eyes,
a blanket
of surrender,
a curtain of bliss:

a checkered napkin

taken from a tavern

or a chessboard
seen
from above.











From Poetry Northwest, Fall 2006/Winter 2007. Copyright University of Washington. Used with Permission.