deer language 

i find a golden tongue
in the leaves. i put it in my mouth
& talk to the stars. their worries
are thick as squash soup. the deer come
because dusk taught them 
all the words they know. 
there is never enough time 
for sleep. i imagine hollowing out
a year with a wooden spoon. 
crawling inside & not having
to talk to any more fires. i crawl out of bed 
without wings again. i sew a pair of eyes
into the ground. bite the string.
once, as a child, a deer asked me,
"would you like a crown?" i felt
unworthy & so i denied it. the deer laughed
& said, "you cannot turn down
your antlers." i checked my head for weeks
terrified that i would wake up
with antlers budding from my head.
they never came but now i feel them.
the weight of holding a piece 
of the sky. each of us, little billboard painters.
i leave a puzzle with missing teeth. 
the deer, the same one that once visited me,
returns headless. he speaks using
the arms of the trees. his prophecy,
urgent now, is, "talk to all 
the colors you can before it is too late."