Cold thought, cold as lakes
Too deep to freeze. Deer
Browse through the scrub oaks
And old snow, while wind
Walks the slopes, old man
Who has lost the thread
Of a plot he knew,
Was once sure he wrote,
Or at least thought of,
Or at least had dreamed,
But no. He should go
Back down to the town
And moan at folks there.
Up here, the deer know
They need to eat. Plots
Line the floors of lakes
With bones. And those poems.
