Oh Deer Head, Mother, Earth

I look at her. She stands, unmoving. Her deer head white and pearled and blood-stained and plum hued, in the forehead, where her third eye was gouged out by greed, but she did not recoil. She stood her stance. Proud. Unshaken by the moment’s uncompromising heartbreak. Dead eyes pass over dark grasses; dirt. Gravel roads stretch out in pumpkin ridged fields; cabbage grove hills; vine looped treasure it was not; secret garden; no better; gray stone prayers bounce off your temples; patch your soul; shield your grace; humble your friar; seek not what your loin seeks but feel through the dark with your mind; hollow blue light tunnels your vision of love, of jazz, of flavor, makes hot your head and pressed your chest; the deer head looms under your eyelids, watches from the earth, up chutes in flowers sniffed; in the curve of a rain drop’s reflection; on the wing of a dragon’s fly; kites take off; with strings of poems attached knotted with sonnets twisted with notes tied with words licked with two tongues light circles light out deer mother, dear Earth.