The shape of a deer
In silhouette
Projected on a woman’s dress. Off
With her arms, her head – the mark
Of a hoof in snow, superimposed
On a high heel, a pool of milk;
The lines converge
And part like migrating birds. Her skirt
Is an hourglass
Filling up with stones. Her heart
Is a caveat. See how they run.
If her foot
Points towards the past,
It’s called composition. (Too much
Thinking spoils a fawn.) Her
Secrets play on continuous loop,
Like a B-movie. On
The reverse: a blank surface
Painted over – another girl,
Blotted out.
Photograph © Bill Sutton