Three Poems

WRONG PSALM

A fawn stilled
in the red-leafed road, lit
magnificent by beams in the
hour leading dawn—Lord,
I’m in the wrong again.

I KNOW THAT LOOK

Nostrils big with want to know,
eyes pink with greed for image
—something unambiguously bright,
that you might finally lose your life and find it.

I wore it to the fridge, hungry for some fruit.

Then, peeling, I beheld
the architecture of the orange,
fragrant oil stored in the part I once discarded.

SOMETHING

   As I walk under a dome of almost snow,   
among the firs and shakes of pending deer,
        I see nothing resembling a book.