Outskirts

The deer of autumn. They wake me, who don’t exist,
behind the yard’s cedar fence. Here they return for their
other brother in the silence that broods in the cool grass,
until morning sirens scatter them. I don’t worry; deer often
make for the tracts of the invisible, the outskirts of other
woods; their minds wade the stillborn creeks in bodies of old rains, and even thread through us, divvied and sewn into pieces.

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