So, you vaulted the back of a deer as it plunged into the river.
Was that a confession?
Was it a moon-white gloat? Was it the splintered glass
of your spirit? Was it a mothy scrap to be stuck
by memory’s tack into amnesiac’s spine?
Was it a comment on your powers or your failures? Was it a wire
with another mesage attached, hung loose as laundry? Reeled up
to the invalid? Was it a window
glaring out from its frame to the exposed south?
Did you really intend to tell me or did it slip out, shocked
by its own clang? Was it a bell chime? Did it hiss? Was it the thick rattle of the marriage veil
as you kissed her cheek? Did it forewarn? Was it a wistful sight? Was it a start?
Did it ever clear its throat?
Was it a screech of horror? Was it heavy-volumed sorrow? Was its blackly heaving accordion
a celebration? Should I have screamed?
Should I have shot a stone in the spine of a runaway arrow?
Should I have bottled us both with a ship?
Should I have held my hand?
Should I have vaulted my own?