deer, near a stream, panting

***

This knuckle’s calloused groove has

not forgot (though mostly now i type)

the pen’s round burning embrace. Bumps and buds of

tongue remember well the taste of

bread, the sting of mustard, the crisp cold bite of

the pickle; even they cling to the flavor of

bologna or marshmallow cereals, which they have not

seen since youth.

Rough and ragged lips cannot misplace

the memory of softest pink your cheek, of

most delicate curve and hunger of your

lovely lonely mouth. The

taxidermied head was not made to be

on display except on

a neck, in the woods, its body

scampering quickly out of sight, leaving only the

vague memory of its presence.

Nothing made was thrown

happenstance together, compacted at the

center of the singularity’s unforgiving suck,

and set alone in empty space.

Rather all things, all matters, and

all molecules were forged in the

bright warm inferno of the stars, baked together in

love like the ingredients of a

birthday cake, made for

a celebrant child.

***

As a deer pants for flowing streams, so pants my soul for you, O God.   – Psalm 42 : 1

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