Afternoon in Wyoming

Deer have begun to cross the fields,
which means it is the first of three
times they will graze today. If I

open the door, they will turn toward me,
perfect in stillness. If I move after that,
they will dance away, their white tails . . . 

I watch them through my window, and try
to slow down time. Deer know where to sleep,
where it’s best to drink from the stream. “Have you

ever met a beautiful man who didn’t want
to be beautiful?” I ask them. “Wouldn’t that be virtuous?” 
A doe, her fawn trailing her, answers,

“That would be stupid. Who would he be to deny
the formative godhead? What is his self-loathing
worth to him?” She sighs, and the day passes.

Lint pirouettes across my eyeballs.
“Yes, but it’s dangerous.” The doe
looks away, catching a scent, then back at me.

“It’s only dangerous if you’re a fool. I can’t believe
you’re writing about this. You are not beautiful,
so you don’t have to worry, okay?”

“I have yet to meet him anyways,” I say.
The deer shake their heads, and disappear.