Love is a new-born deer we find in a water-filled ditch
hoofs still white
a scar on the decline down which it slid
and horrified, we pick it up
gently carry it into the woods
and leave it to rest in a clearing
where its mother can find it.
But when we check on it later in the day
it is cold and still
and the only thing we carry out of those woods
is remorse.
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