What do you do when you wake and learn

you’re a deer, the tips of your racks

scabbed, your tan hide nothing like

the crow’s sheen? You can’t pinch

your hide and wake — your hooves can’t pinch.

Smells glow in your nose like they

live their own lives. The air is a gray veil

with one small thread you pull to

help you find your way back to your fawn

you left in the woods all alone.