three deer at my tomatoes
glance up the hill to the house,
two adolescents and a doe
who’ll scour the woods this winter foraging;
who, when all else is gone, will eat bark.
but under a blazing sun
on a globe perfectly poised
to draw springs of blood from dirt,
fountains rich and provident enough
to vitalize dark soil, we wander
in flesh coats to browse,
to nose for stuff that makes us spark
—now among red tomatoes we are well,
oblivious to an age of bark

Jim Culleny


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