after Richard Siken

I crack the sliding glass door wide enough for an animal, immortal
________________________________________to ascend a fleeced deck
_______in dying dark. Motion lights keep time with the Bic’s rusted flint,
& suddenly the deer stilled against snowcapped pines–
______________scavenging what? A few brambles, twigs? Buried buds of ash?
_______Hand-me-down cowpeas dappling bird scat? A cul-de-sac’s not
____________________exactly trading up. Of course, lilac-scented spring.
Sure, summer dogwoods. But often the rabid hound off its tie-out.
________________________________________________Funny thing about
forced migration, always the natives angling your demise. I slide a roach
______from black lips for the neighborhood
__________________________________watch, bow cocked, above his house
in the deer blind. At this height, I’m retreating
______________ice pond in a patio table.
___________________________________Spotted face in an antiquated fable.

Marcus Wicker