.
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.
.
orphan poems 