It was harrowing, I was killing deer.

I was killing deer, cooing to them, finding

a 'natural'  thing that

droopingly, with sad trust, drew them in.

I was unprepared for the rest, the explosion, and poetic twists.

(There was blood everywhere)

They were baked into pies and cakes

Mildew blossomed in the open air, again, red sheets

and memory and tans and so on.

The Fall had begun, and like any amateur,

I had my hand in it.

Snow and leaves sworled and bullshit racketed

around the windows and fell flat

it was the dance

and staring out I caught a reverie

so

carefully composing the blood

deftly in my fingers and under the crook of my arm

carried the head to the table...

(it is forever the end of October)