From comments in a locked entry, quoted with permission.
First, the poem in question:
Tragic rabbit, a painting.
The caked ears green like rolled corn.
The black forehead pointing at the stars.
A painting on my wall, alone
as rabbits are
and aren't. Fat red cheek,
all Art, trembling nose,
a habit hard to break as not.
You too can be a tragic rabbit; green and red
your back, blue your manly little chest.
But if you're ever goaded into being one
beware the True Flesh, it
will knock you off your tragic horse
and break your tragic colors like a ghost
breaks marble; your wounds will heal
so quickly water
will be jealous.
Rabbits on white paper painted
outgrow all charms against their breeding wild;
and their rolled corn ears become horns.
So watch out of the tragic life feels fine -
caught in that rabbit trap
all colors look like sunlight's swords,
and scissors like The Living Lord.
That just makes you all the more tragic. Tragic Rabbit.
DEAR GOD NO
I shot you with my gun."
(That is how the poem should have gone.)