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.