The Doe (after Arthur Sze)

The river was rosy at dawn.
I saw a doe, stopped
in the water.

And when the doe walked, modest waves
flowed from behind her.  I was
a statue then.  And sensed

the doe hesitate.  And at dusk, dozing,
the river was amber in the
June mist.

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The First Door On the Left

You enter the room where you child self dreamed.
Your dreams have changed but the room has not

The water-stained ceiling has not forgotten how your
salt-caked eyes stared wildly up at its jowls, dazed by
what the day had dealt you, oh so ready to retreat into
your ever expanding skull.

Those walls, those taciturn aunts and uncles, recall
your mirthful mouth making merry after August
birthday thrills and encounters with middle school
Rudy Valentinos.

The pre-Instagram picture window, alone now as it
was then, reflects on who you were, who you are, and
who you may yet become.

You leave the room where your child self dreamed.
The room has changed but your dreams have not.