For Claire Malroux
Why do they lie down
when I shoot them?
Such open,
willing obedience
seems to come
from an inclination
to serve. I wish
I could control
myself better,
but I am not grown yet,
and the mystery
of death means
nothing to me.
Perhaps it is better
to be feared than loved.
The deer do not
seem to grieve
because of what
they have lost,
but instead
seem to just
lie down on
the forest floor—
after sauntering
like little cathedrals
with antler-spires—
something whole
in between
man and God,
cloaked with red
hair to the membranes
of their eyes.
How strange
not to remember
even the blows
to their heads
that made them sleep—
to be so absorbed
by experience
and then to forget.