Under bright moonlight the antlers
of a blacktail buck turn and rise
from the patch of wild raspberries
growing on the slope behind my house

and turn and fall back into it
like the forked masts of a dream
ship sinking, surfacing, sinking
repeatedly on a calm sea.

Wrapped in their blood-rich velvet,
still hardening, they are already magnificent,
those antlers, and for a moment I wish
I could have them growing from my own head.

Then I’d never again be at a loss
for a way to start a conversation,
yet in department meetings or at cocktail parties
everyone would give me plenty of room.

I could make my own space in crowded bars,
be seated right away in busy restaurants,
speed through supermarket quick-check lines.
No one would want to keep me waiting behind them.

And if I ever had to argue a difficult position,
I could swing my antlers around for emphasis,
heft them for rhetorical leverage.
I could even make several points at once.

Now the buck in the berry thicket lifts his head,
dips it again, and I think of the way I’ve been
trying to speak to you. Suppose I simply bowed
respectfully. Surely that would get your attention.

Because it is a country most of us visit
only rarely, we will never be fluent

in the language of grief. We speak haltingly
and often have to excuse ourselves, saying Sorry,

sorry. What else can we do?
Whenever we go there, although we know

we’ve packed more than we need,
we refuse to let anyone carry our luggage.

In the streets, we clutch new souvenirs
like wounds, as if letting go of them

for a moment would surely ruin us.
But no one else is going

to want what we’ve bought.
No one is going to pick our pockets.

Wherever we walk, even crossing the piazza,
we find ourselves alone, the architecture foreign,

the buildings all painted the same conservative shades
as the suits of undertakers. We are always getting lost.

And when we come back home again, none
of our friends will ask to see our photographs.

Instead, they’ll want to try out the few clumsy words
they can remember from their own trips across that border.

At work, Sisyphus
rolls up his sleeves, they roll back
down. He hitches up

his jeans, they ride down again.
He tugs his jeans up, they slip

right back down. He says
fuck it and begins pushing
his stone up the slope.

My neighbor’s dog is busy
sending messages, barking
three times, pausing

as if he’s listening,
then barking three times again.
Perhaps he is calling someone who is not at home.

Or maybe he is signaling space alien dogs,
broadcasting his own ancient name — Wolf!
Wolf! Wolf! — and waiting

for them to answer. This may take a while,
but he is patient. He has been at it, repeating
the same thing, doggedly, all night long.