I approach a harp
abandoned
in a harvested field.
A deer
leaps out of the brush
and follows me
in the rain, a scarlet
snake wound
in its dark antlers.
My fingers
curled around a shard
of gla**—
it's like holding the hand
of a child.
I'll cut the harp strings
for my mandolin,
use the frame as a window
in a chapel
yet to be built. I'll scrape
off its blue
lacquer, melt the flakes
down with
a candle and ladle
and paint
the inner curve
of my soup bowl.
The deer pa**es me.
I lower my head,
stick out my tongue
to taste
the honey smeared
on its hind leg.
In the field's center,
I crouch near
a boulder engraved
with a number
and stare at a gazelle's
blue ghost,
the rain falling through it.