"Last fall, a neighbor shot a doe in my front yard. I heard the gunshot, saw the doe stagger, limping and bewildered, out of the copse and race with her twins in a confused panic into the woods. I was shocked, although I had cursed the same deer for eating the last of the summer’s cherry tomatoes. This is certainly fodder for a poem, right?
"There’s no poem there for me. No reach from the beauty of the scene; the explosion of the hunter; the death of the mother; the death of a human mother; to lots of pathos; then a return to beauty of the scene—the post-Romantic boomerang. . . .
"Watch out for sentimentality. Predatory personification, too. And men with guns."
° ° °
Veritas sequitur ...
In the small beauty of the forest
The wild deer bedding down—
That they are there!
Effortless, the soft lips
Nuzzle and the alien small teeth
Tear at the grass
The roots of it
Dangle from their mouths
Scattering earth in the strange woods.
They who are there.
Nibbled thru the fields, the leaves that shade them
Hang in the distances
The small nouns
In this in which the wild deer
Startle, and stare out.