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April 2017, vol 13 no 1

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Jonathan Humphrey

Two-Toed Elegy On A Dotted Line


We didn't see it happen, but the deer was hit hard and fast and you couldn't feed a buck honeyed-dynamite and expect this kind of shrapnel. In truth, I can't see fur, can't find deer color. There is no discernible skull, no spine. The level is rib shards stinging high in the sycamores and warm blood buttering the mile marker. You could walk among small mounds, guessing at muscle, hinting at organs. But already it's blue fly glitter, then vulture disco, then emptiness pressing against the moment like wind on a dark sail. Where is my mother's singing?

on a dew-covered truck
I write my name –
autumn chill


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