My breath stops for a stray deer in the clearing.
above the vase of his neck, I become his prey.
My heart is anchored to what I lack
the sinewed leg slim as a bow
the weightless prance across the meadow
the slow turning of his head, the moral stance,
the rounded flank. I know I am not beautiful to him.
My bones carry the weight of small desires and grace
is in my longing to possess his beauty.
When this field returns to me again and again,
I leap with him, my thighs are his, together we enter sky
as though our thoughts reject the flesh and all its gravity.
I am his mirror. His own perfection
not as much to him as a mouthful of grass.
I could divide the world between
those who are beautiful and
those who see beauty.
Each side has its own loss.