William Heyen
Off the Expressway
In the evening meadow, whorls of grey mist.
Within the mist, a deer, a doe, almost
disembodied. She lifts her head from clover.
She knows she’s in danger, and will be, forever,
because of what we say, or how we see,
or how we hear her: the meadow is poetry,
the deer its object
and elusive music, the mist
her safety should we try to track her and kill her.
Now the poem s traffic spirits us away.
The expressway ends in the city, gray
with mist, through which dreamers walk, and deer.
Page(s) 61
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