In the park near my house, there is an enclosure of Red Deer. Last year, a number of them were moved to a nature reserve in the Scottish highlands to give them a bit more breathing space. The park keepers posted laminated notices explaining what had happened, alongside photos of the reserve: a pristine island at the mouth of a wide, blue sea loch. You could see the city-dwellers who passed by giving the image a wistful look, wondering if perhaps they too could be relocated. This poem, unrelated to that little story, is really rather special.
Deer Tracks
Beautiful, sobbing
high-geared fucking
and then to lie silently
like deer tracks in the
freshly-fallen snow beside
the one you love.
That’s all.
Richard Brautigan (January 30, 1935 – ca. September 14, 1984)
If you’ve got a suggestion for Monday’s dirty poem, don’t hesitate to get in touch…
