One Lame Deer

Those of us who are lame know
It’s not kind to use the word,
Not since it’s not true, but since

Its truth was used as a slur,
And once it’s a slur, a name
Stays more of a slur than truth.

But this deer is lame. It halts
And limps with its group. It lags
But keeps up as best it can.

If there were wolves here these days,
It would hold a short-term lease
On life for sure. There are trucks,

And cars, and the rare big cat.
There are those who wait for death
To find its own way, then eat.

But the lame deer’s not dead yet.
Some past lives must have lived on
So the urge past pain passed on.

How is it a truth, to be
Too hurt to walk well, but walk?
It’s a deer. It has no names.

One Dead Hare

It’s a fine aim of the Jains,
To test, to prove, to make good
On a sworn vow not to kill—

As if one could or could not
Choose to spare life in this world.
It’s a test, at least. They try.

There’s a dead hare in this road,
Hit by a car, food for crows.
The hare ran out in the dark,

And crunched in a tire. Was it
Chased out? Was it in a chase?
A lot of hares here are sick

With a new bug on the rounds,
Which makes each live one more rare,
Puts more stock in one dead hare,

Though no one will mourn this one,
Save us, the words in this poem.
Pets have died that strayed too far,

Now that there are so few hares.
There are a lot of things need
To eat at night still out there.

A half-starved fox has sharp teeth.
There’s not one life life won’t eat,
As soon as it gets the chance.

The Jains, too, have carved their niche.
As much as they’ve ruled out—gnats
And roots—some things they’ve ruled in,

You know, as they live and breathe.
What the crows don’t eat for them—
And the flies, the ants, the germs—

Will end up in ground or air,
Which is the realm of the roots
And leaves you thought lived on air.

Of Tints and Scents

That sat down next to you,
That talked of what was you,

And them and us and not
You—the part of what you

Have to be that sees things
As long as you can see

And that smells things as well
As you can smell—that part

Wants a word with you
That you can’t put in words.

We get it. We’ll go now.
You go take in the day.

The Grace of the Carved

Just at the sharp part of dusk,
When the shades of trees are dense

As bar code lines on the road,
So that to drive through the woods

Is to feel, in a sense, scanned
By things that know who you are,

And have made note of your life
Each time you’ve swiped it past them,

All the small gods of light lurk.
If you turn to us right then

To help you with what you feel,
We’ll fail. All codes share the sly

Trait we try to hide, keep mum,
Hush-hush. Words have it, of course,

But so do your cells, as well.
The lights from stars had it first.

It’s why we’re shy at some hours.
We’re shades, words. We can be used

To count, to tell light is all
Small quants, points, packs, on or off,

Like us, and that seems like us.
But there’s a ghost at all points,

Which can’t be named, which your cells
Can’t breathe, which the light won’t show,

Though it’s close. It gets so close
It shuts us up, sharp at dusk.