It might be all right.
The deer walk in the middle of the street
looking relaxed,
while we all hold our breath.
Only the moon coughs a little
in the secrecy of our flooded backyard.
 
It might come back
when the deer stop running away, when
they can look into your eyes.
And the raven—
gives birth to a contraceptive sky
that will not produce any new images.
 
The clouds
press low, to the very flesh of the lake,
sending arrows from its muffled cry.
Slowly, the wave.  A carp
shoots up from the water, glittering
in its mid-air somersault.
 
Why does it jump
if not for coming back?
As if brooding for a long time until
its scales rust, the weeds
growing in its gill,
elusive and exuberant.
 
Well, you just have to let it be.
The wind, undetectable
beneath the surface,
inflamed by the ambiguous scent of moonlight.
Once the storm starts, the water
resumes its peace.
 
Things only run the way you believe.
The fish leaps
with a determined turn, then
falls back, but not the one it was once in.
You, return to where you came from,
alone and wounded.