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

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