On this back road the land
has the juice taken out of it:
stump fences surround nothing
worth their tearing down
by a deserted filling station
a Veedol sign, the rusted hulk
of a Frazer,
"live bait"
"live bait"
on battered tin.
A barn
with half a tobacco ad
owns the greenness of a manure
pile
a half-moon on a privy door
a rope swinging from an elm. A
collapsed henhouse, a pump
with the handle up
the orchard with wild tangled branches.
—
In the far corner of the pasture,
in the shadow of the woodlot
a herd of twenty deer:
three bucks
are showing off—
they jump in turn across the fence,
flanks arch and twist to get higher
in the twilight
as the last light filters
through the woods.
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