When the doe emerged
from the fortressed walls
of emerald corn stalks
and slipped onto the field
road smattered with dew
I didn’t hear her.
Didn’t see silent lightning
spider the night
in the inimitable distance
of her eyes of oblique
glass, onyx,
but felt her gaze turn
inward and haunt,
like the slow face
in an uncanny dream,
felt her in the pang
of a nerve buried deep
near the soft source,
origins of breath.
In these veins ripe
and untwisted ran
a word ancient, encrypted
that channeled out to gulfs
black at the center.
In the heart
of these old waters
I felt the good take
of new roots and rose
to the field road streaked
violet in morning glory
and like a dream dulled
by blind morning light
she was gone.
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