by Eric Pankey
The buck, each flame on his antler candelabrum
Wind-snuffed, freezes: poised to flee, but not yet fled.
Moonlight narrows to fit the crack in the canopy,
Only to widen and pool on the duff and underbrush,
To drip from the rack’s flameless eighteen points.
The buck, neither threat nor transport, shakes his head
As if in answer to a yes or no question with yes and no,
And shreds the moth-thick air to an even dustier moonlight.