I still wonder
about that doe I found
in the barbed wire
I walked a long ways
until the sun rose
and sat like a Catholic
two racks of antlers
and a mantle full of bones
I found on the flat place
in the mountains of home
and the real buck had a stand
off with the dream one
locking horns over the genre
of their death songs
and the pure beautiful
stink of the doe
songs that went down in history
oh, kind of like a river
unwritten by itself
like the good soil your boots steal
when it rains and paradise
sleeps in like a bitter star
we wash from our hands
traveling past the wet
and forbidden lands
of our youth, dark
and amazed in those days
when fences and boundaries
were strange and meant
to be taken down and not fixed
for the free to be found in.
Partly true, probably still so. I still wonder about that doe.