Wednesday, December 23, 2015


I am reading a poem about a God on the bright
rectangle of my phone-- squinting from white
light when I hear the sound: one lone
shot echoes down the hill I say a prayer
for the deer, downed with eyes still open
blinking water. Without my eyes I see her
this poem overlapped by this dying pain
that grows, about God, about God being alive
in the form of a fag-- not a stick bundle
but a person who has been taught to hate
himself, hate the way he grows to be
with a man swells and swollen it's
all too much for me, I put down
the phone light all I can see
is the deer, the deer who in this moment
is dying on the ground, the leaves
around her she never saw coming,
too young to fear people the way
she should, I draw circles
with my pen, over and over go
the same rounding line till the circle
becomes a sphere, becomes
two spheres (so neither sphere
is dying alone) the deer is sinking
down now into my throat, chest:
this is how we go on living inside
each other, these times the worst/
best we kill the innocents, the easiest
ones first, put their heads on
our wall and leave their eyes open
so we can be dead when we look
into them.