So I’m in the red-
neck of the woods,
and this is the part of the country
where people aim their rifles
at autumn. What I would give
to be that season
with so many weapons.
Here, where all wild-
life startles easily, I miss
the bullseye on every rabbit’s back.
I grieve the living
I fail to dress
and undress like small children.
When I drive back to the farm,
it’s dark enough
that I could be anywhere.
I kill the gas
and lower my head-
lights like a sheep
bringing its mouth closer
to the earth.
