what keeps you up all night
listening to the neighbor
call his cats in: oh the animals
we might choose to save, put them
on a polystyrene ark to Mars: what
we start that finishes us: the seventy-
four degree day in December: …
Your own body, broken into so many times, became a clear lake
for her to bathe in. Remember pulling the one tiny, suckering
leech from below her neck, the pale collarbone Braille it left.
The deer come out in the evening.
God bless them for not judging me,
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
and make strange noises at them—
if language can be a kind of crying.
Here's what I'm trying to say: The deer coming toward us through the dark
and we're unable to see them
The car passing over the bridge into the maw of the city like a willing moth
suddenly wrapped in fire