down & outside, vividly, lies the deer in the
golden hour of the headlights; she is frozen, like
tracks in ice on the snow, like blood
at the center of a glacier, a radius away from
being known. The deer is not dead but
she lies on the pavement like she would
want to be just that; leaking out life to
be carried and rained down again, so that
the next life can drink at it and know that
it isn’t just rain anymore. It isn’t just rain anymore.

the moose driving the car doesn’t know this.
the moose sets the sun on her horizon, whose
line moves and sounds like a failing heart on
the machine of a sterilized room; the moose
driving the car doesn’t stop. The moose driving
the car does not bless her with a slow or graceful
death, because he does not know her wishes;
so the car moves on, red taillights the bursting
milky way, painting her blank eyes with mock –
blood. she does not bleed out life. It was knocked out
of her before it could leak. her life does not
evaporate beautifully. it is still just rain. it is
still just rain.