Waking
It was dusk, the light hesitating
and a murmer in the wind, when the deer, exhausted,
turned to look at me, an arrow in its side.
Though I pity dreamers, taking a thread
and weaving it upon the loom of Self — the secret,
gaudy, wonderful new cloth — , I will tell the end of the story.
His shoulder was torn, the joint held by one sinew,
which I severed with the blade of the arrow,
so when he ran there were no impediments.
The black dogs that followed were swifter,
their barking ancient, despicable.