Lone deer
highlight of my days
in spare Rochester, cold and snowy in winters
and grey. This day was clear
and the night air crisp on campus
as I stood alone, inside, within myself and my Honda Accord
red, and beat up, on the downslope of a main road
which in Rochester is always a side road.
Sideways I looked at myself, buried away from music
though I would frequent the dance halls, obliquely attuned
to what was de-attenuated. And now, soft, a deer
I ask, prithee, what Shakespeare would have thought
on an abandoned road adrift from clear, brisk pines
snowtopped, the air pure, a deer, munching
in the middle of the road
the university’s road, we, the posessors, the takers
but no road at all. It stood, looking at and straight through me,
as if I was not there, but also there, entirely present
The way one munches on snow, knowing it gives no sustenance
and as the old women tell you, the snow is dirty, though then
why when I eat it do I emit radiances, the snow exploding within me, suffused outwards
into delight? I want badly to touch this deer, this deer with no name
though I wouldn’t dare disrespect it, I need permission, though what is this need
my need is also disrespect, and so I stare, with each thought asking permission
am I permitted to touch the sacred, if only I could touch the top of your head
with the back of my palm, tell you my secrets, ask of you
what is this benediction, everywhere, I did not ask for it, but have received it
and touch it, every day, though dulled, I heard music once, in the halls of my parent’s home
before the collapse began, in the fires of the hills above
raided by snakes and scorpions, who, at times, ventured near our pad
our sanctuary of immigrant madness, barbecues where the hot smoke annoyed the neighbors
and teased them into submission. It is the Armenian way: we passion you into senselessness
until it all explodes, so I munch on snow, like this deer on grass, the ultimate art: cold, beautiful, and controlled
and in its coldness warm, radiating outwards the freshness of its joy
though I sense fear in this deer, it is a wild animal after all
and at this superb timing, a policeman shows up to question me “What are you doing here”
though I am all alone, and the deer, intelligently, without fear, ventures off
the moment disturbed by the non-understanding without a flashlight
to question miracles he clearly does not understand. I could explain to him what happened
but he wouldn’t understand, or care. We could just say
he was doing his job. I bare him no hatred, but don’t wish to speak with him either.
I have found my life littered with idiots, and wish for nothing more
than solitude, to speak with the deer
and ask how he does it, how he manages, despite it all
in the face of shotguns, traps, flashlights, roads, concrete, to stay so beautiful.
Joy is not enough, that is a gift from the Gods, we both have it.
Beauty, which is an act of the will.