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The Door of the Season


The Door of the Season


That time of year when deer confer

In rings around the coldest springs,

Their antlers woven into chandeliers

Lit with eyes. The door of the season

Is about to open, a door that is flush

With the earth, its jambs brimming

With light that pours up from the secret

Room in which dead fathers embrace

Their solemn sons, who pull away

To climb the rungs, pushing the door

Up with the butts of their guns.

The hinges creak and the door falls

With a heavy thud to the forest floor.

The deer hear it and begin to sway,

Unlocking their antlers, then back away

Gallantly into deaths all their own.

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