The Deer
Vital enough to multiply
and multiply and multiply,
a genetic tactic evolved in an era
when wildcats, bears and bowmen
thinned their numbers.
Not just any leaf will feed a deer.
What might be eaten in the woodland
mostly has been.
Now even gardens in the suburbs
act as a lure, uprootings and sheared-off
stems the source of swear-words
for gardeners who planted
corn, lettuce or cosmos.
No one has taught the herds to notice,
but ticks the size of a pinhead
pepper their bodies,
increasing now in number, not decreasing.
The deer returns any curious stare
with his lyrical Asian gaze,
one ear flicking, then the other,
velvet still on his horns,
the coat dense as tan-gray sand.
No calm is so secure. Without being told
he knows the Buddha
once preached in a deer park.
He wasn’t there but the ancestral memory
is so strong he is not here now.
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