79. antlers

.

like antlers inside

the deer’s skull waiting, waiting 

for the time to sprout,

an old discord lies

ready, blueprint laid 

inside my skull, same

.

architecture as 

last year’s discord,

ready to sprout, grow

.

upward into hard 

familiar shapes, tools of 

combat aimed to wound.

.

grown not used, what 

then? do small deer 

curse their useless antlers, 

tools impotent or do they

clean them well against limber 

tree trunks, carry them

indifferently then 

shed the lovely shapes, 

satisfied?

.

may discord 

.

dissolve into

impotent clean shapes,

lovely, rubbed clean

and left discarded in some 

overlooked valley

of friendship.

.