Fawn
Another twitch, another trembling
gait then gone. What could be
elegance is all instinct. I am so tired
of all the fear around me and I have
no idea whose fear it must be. All
I know is another roar and cry
another sweeping light and my legs
frozen fast now and something so
startling it must be good though I
know it cannot be anything but
another night black scurry, another
disaster waiting to seize, on the
dark roads, on the dark dark roads
it is so cold I could crouch down
here on the crackling leaves and
let the black snow bleed over me.
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About the Author
Joseph Campana is author of The Book of Faces. He teaches Renaissance literature at Rice University and is completing a new collection called Sheltering Bough.
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