Inventory

Inventory
This is what we have.
The hawk calling in the dark forest.
The hands of our lovers,
resting on our chests as we sleep.
And more.
The spring wind
waking us again
like all the bridles of childhood
dragged across our bodies,
still warm from the wild things that were broken in them.
The brokenness
is what we have.
That, too.
At the edge
of the road,
the doe curls in sawgrass
where the wreckage left her.
No one is alone on this wild earth.
Let sorrow come.
Let the rain fall
on the cold doe in the open
where she crumbles in the coming rush
of trouble.
Let the heart
do
what it must do, ruined
as the wintered lips of the broken doe,
but opening,
sniffing the pistol.