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"Acquired Immune
Deficiency Syndrome"

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I approach a harp abandoned
in a harvested field.

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A deer leaps out of the brush
and follows me in the rain,

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a scarlet snake wound
in its dark antlers.

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My fingers curled
around a shard of glass,

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it's like holding
the hand of a child.

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I'll cut the harp
strings for my mandolin.

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Use a frame as a window in
a chapel yet to be built.

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I'll scrape off
its blue lacquer,

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melt the flakes
down with a candle

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and ladle, and paint the
inner curve of my soup bowl.

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The deer passes me.

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I lower my head,
stick out my tongue

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to taste the honey
smeared on its hind leg.

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In the field's center, I
crouch near a boulder engraved

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with a number, and stare
at a gazelles blue ghost,

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the rain falling through it.

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