On days as slick as this, holstered on my hip,
I need a sign. The deer are lying low in the hazel thickets,
eyes as bright as oiled bolts, lying low on folded legs
on a mucilage of leaves, lying close to the earth they resemble,
beings long evolved who know what’s good for them,
unlike you and me, who second guess, unlike florid men
sighting down their Weatherbys, dead certain.
In mist like this, lowering with smoke that dives for ground,
I need a sign, sinking in the damp collapse of wind
billowing like rifle fire across the sodden hollow,
nothing straight in nature but the melt off of the eaves,
weight against my hip a troubled comfort,
desire a small assurance as the copper-clads spin true,
I need a sign that love and death are sure.