Another Poem with Deer in It

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,


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.
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