As the buck lay dead, tied to the fender
of a car
coming down from Matagomon way,
I saw dried blood on his tongue of
a thousand summer dreams and winter
cogitations –
the scratches on his hooves were signatures
of the many pungent sticks and branches.
The torn place in his chest was made
by a man
letting out visceral debris to save weight-giving
morsels to many a greedy fox or other wild
thing –
over the glaze of his half-shut eye
hung miseries of superlative moments
stuck dumb
Marsden Hartley, 1877-1943 – “As the Buck Lay Dead” from Collected Poems 1904-1943
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