Because there isn’t a poem in America
without deer in it, I send you photos from the road
of their every possible crossing. The highway hot with possibility,
a new herd expected every five miles, halting and curious,
cautious of contact, their flying limbs contracted,
a new herd expected every five miles, halting and curious,
cautious of contact, their flying limbs contracted,
contained in a small and yellow space. I am thinking of a dream
with you in it. Standing opposite me. Close, but my voice couldn’t
carry,
was caged and clipped when I tried to call out to you.
with you in it. Standing opposite me. Close, but my voice couldn’t
carry,
was caged and clipped when I tried to call out to you.
