Full Cry

A deer made of lights
          grazes on the lawn,
no, pauses with head perked
          as if just lifted from a stream—
no, is always pausing.
          It always almost-drinks

from the snow mottling
          the cold dead
green. Only one of its kind
          left, it lingers into
February. What a sight
          it would be in the woods,

lighting the bracken,
          fleeing the spring-wound
hounds, a trace of nimbus
          in the distance—
how easily they would
          bring it down.




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