Visitors

I came back from the woods
festooned with the threads
and tatters of spider webs.

The moth that hovered
outside my door
this morning, an eye

on each wing, was gone;
later the tabby would tear off
one wing, watch closely

as what remained went fluttering
across the road. Now
two deer have paused

on their way up the hill.
They meet my eyes, but no:
they can see that the world

still sticks to me. I am not
far enough gone.

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