Biting the Dust

Anything can cut through

and here it is:

the sharp clip, clip of a deer’s blunt teeth

 

cutting thoughtfully through blades of grass;

clips of time snipped from the past

and future; a present

for me to forget.

 

A car comes round the bend with headlights

like blind eyes; someone shouts fuck you,

to me or to the deer, I don’t know.

And it’s alright. It’s fine!

 

You might say that it ruined the moment

but that wouldn’t be true;

 

each moment is its own, is born

and dies pure as awareness strikes—like lightning,

or like stinging nettles nestled in the forest floor,

or like cold water rolling over smooth stones—

 

it is all right

 

as the deer’s hooves scrape softly

over old asphalt,

so close

I can see life in the circle of her eye.

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