Where Deer Sleep
That place where the Moon
goes from whole to slithered,
bites of dust, smiles of yellow
rock, strange toenail shapes amidst
a royal navy blue canvas of stars,
growing dimmer the closer they are.
Just hidden enough to be found in
the bushes, sea urchin green, springing
up as coverage for all the earthlings which
do not sleep
In front of a thousand oaks, a family of
Whitetail Deer, each resting on a
pod of grass indented like the forehead of
an infant. There is a nakedness to this ritual,
a non-terrestriality, signs of the Creator’s indivisibility.
A place where deer sleep. Beside the specter
of daffodils blooming in untimely silences, made of
atoms, bones held by the same basic power source
of gravitational waves that only deer listen to.
Wrapped together for some reason, around the Sun, stretching
out into space, atomic reactions to the night. From sunrise to
sunset, turning away from the hours traveling across the sky.
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