He said he saw a deer dragging barbed wire,
its mouth white with foam, its eyes
dim. And I had little to offer, so I told him
about the recording of the dying bird in the subway,
its agony forcing the living birds
to leave some distance, between themselves
and the horror of it, a kind of mercy.
What could I say? For all our speaking
I could not disprove his still lying present.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 1.