The weight of what momentarily is
The closest is a cello-
The closer the bare hand, the more pressure, the less song
to dampen what isn't said on the long drive home.
He said a deer crashed through the law firm window
and died. Right where he'd sat.
And I wanted to hold him, grip that cello's neck
and crush its frame. Snap wires, splinter wood.
But I said nothing. Or more likely, I mouthed Jesus
to air, stagnant and humid and hot. Again
silence is a cathedral door
carved with spirals and suns, so heavy with age
it's impossible to pull open, though the beyond is familiar
coolness that might offer relief, if not belief
that inside the moment isn't yet
a malformed moment, another deer
splayed on the side of the road, or even two
grazing in the field you now pass. Here,
Little moment, here-here, little moment-
If I jangle a treat will you leap into our laps?
Stretch and curl, the leash slack
or snap and snarl at each passing car?