The day the deer died,I was alive in my house. I was alive in a watery fieldof glaciers. In the realm of birchwood in my throat.The day the robins wept, the dayfoxes ran from the woods on fire. I was alive in a decade. Sometimesdreaming of another region was my religion. It was a place before trees, prior to the flame. When the deer died,I was in my house dreaming. Then the drought came. Cessation of sound. Flames as red as apples lodged inside my throat hissing.
