the moment of approaching
a buck with a rack of antlers
who wouldn’t move, and
my dilemma of how to complete
my walk without being gored.
I implored him to be on his way,
and he wasn’t impressed.

My soul squeaked out
in the four feet between us
as I inched by. When you read this,
a stone appears with a mark
for meditation. A ritual begins

as you contemplate the forest,
rutting season, territories
in question. The center splits
the soul into transparencies,
the labyrinth you enter

when you touch a sentence,
imagine the path, leafless wood,
buck entranced with power
over the small man. The man
sliding past as if by a table
along a wall. The man descends

toward the creek as the soul
in a thousand dimensions enters
your skin with resonance
of a poem that haunts the eye.

~~~~~