The Deer Come Down from the Mountains
When storms approach, the deer
come down
from the mountains. They stand in
people’s yards, they walk
through the Chevron station.
The deer look childlike and
amateurish, ears twitching
in the public park.
Gangs of them, five or six or seven,
they sniff the air, how do
they know the blizzard is coming?
Who among them
lives long enough to know the path
to safety?
The locals barely notice, avoid hitting
them with their cars.
But I notice, I regard
their intelligence, their forecasting
skills, their trust in the
humans who let them mingle
in their driveways, on main street.
It must be a nuisance, the deer shit,
when they get caught in your fence.
But the inhabitants of this
mountain town understand.
They accommodate the sheltering
animals, as prescribed by the natural
law of these lands.
Small Stack of Books
The night my father died
I sat in my office
And looked at the stack
Of books
I had authored, which I had poured
My life’s spirit into, but which
Would mean little to me during
My last hours
Just a stack of objects, one on top
Of another, easily removed
Biodegradable
Family was the one thing you could
Leave behind, which would grow
And prosper without you,
Not the thoughts
You had once, the stories you
Told, your particular point of view
Still, once my father
Was buried, I did not seek out a wife and
Produce the children who would save
Me from oblivion, I kept
Scribbling and typing and building small
Worlds in my mind
Which brought me
Momentary peace, it was all
I was capable of, by habit, by inclination
Now I suspect that either way, the result is
The same, you come into the world
And then pass out again, does the world need
More books or does it need more children?
The turning earth remains neutral
On the question
Blake Nelson previously published a book review in The Metropolitan Review of Nate Lippens’ My Dead Book.