The Wild Doe in the Woods

Poets, step out of your rooms.
Peel yourselves, thinly,
with the blade of cool air.
Come clean.
Lay your skins down in the grass.

What? Is your skin a mountain that cannot move?
Is the air a loneliness?
How will you carry your poems?
Is your mind a vigorous wood?
Are the poems the deer?
Do their eyes startle when they feel
the stone slide from your face?

Nature has its suspicions.
Poets, poets, tell us
what you have done.


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