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Death In Texas
There is a distant place
where old blood
seeps from crusted wounds
coloring present realities
with a tint of tragedy.
When I turn full face towards it,
I see something of mine from yesterday:
The cold of late November,
the sin-guilt oppression
so fertile within a boy.
With steady hands
I joined a gun sight and a deer.
Squeezing the trigger
she dropped in the same instant.
I crossed to her body,
and was forever separated
from the child I was,
when the doe
still alive
raised her head
rested it on my chest
and looked at me
as if she anticipated my anguish.
It was a while before
I breathed again.
And I,
less than I was before,
slit her throat.
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