(Lament for) The Offshore Deer

They took my deer and

they rolled him down the sandbank.

They kicked him as he shuffled on sediment. 

His hooves couldn’t grip

but their boots could.

They stripped my deer

of his fatherhood and hide.

Thinning out is so literal.

Pushing out is so littoral.

Bloated like the buoys to my left,

he is on his side.

He is in a grave made of sunrise and salt

but he is not cured.

The dogs are hooked on the lead

as walkers approach.

They aren’t sure what they are looking at

but the Red Setter does.

He could smell carrion as soon as he slid

out of the four-by-four.

He pulls away from the brigade,

twitching all over.

They walk on by and, when I get

hungry, I leave him too.