by Douglas Nordfors
You walking outside inside
me, I give you the shape
of deer tracks in and in,
over and over, the snow,
your eyes tracking the body,
the thin legs, through this
inconceivable world, not
like a hunter, no, your
eyes actually falling
on the snow, but achieving
less than the snow did
by falling. Into last spring
your legs walk aimlessly
parallel to the tracks,
the cold underneath your
coat opening and opening
at the seams, until you can,
it seems, hear me (I can’t hear
myself) promising meat
for flowers to eat.