Saturday, January 9, 2010


That first last time
I staggered through the woods of Maine,
Driving the deer westward,
the branches clawed at my face,
while the grass snaked around my feet.
Looking up, I saw him in the clearing,
his eyes piercing mine, but not begging.
The trigger, the bang, the smoke, --
then the gun got heavier in my arms.

Greg Razran

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