There is the morning, there is the lightening sky

     donning a semblance of dependability—

like listening for a wavelength of someone’s voice

     where syllogisms present truths

like a dream of nourishment

     someone might offer you with his hands,

or the poignancy of disembodied but intact organs,

     (a doe’s complete heart)—


     if autumn wind: infatuation,

if hounds: a kill to be made,

     if deer: deer meat until autumn is a memory

like the pin you stuck into your arm,

     and the bead of blood,

when you were young enough to starve

     as if no one had ever done what you were doing;

it didn’t even have a name.