Too Many

my neighbors
say, when what they mean
                  are deer—the foragers, the few at a time, fair

if little more
than rats, according to
                  a farmer friend nearby, whose corn means plenty.

They nip the peaches,
and one bite ruins;
                  hazard every road with their running-

not-away; a
                  menace; plague; something should be done.

Or here in town,
where I’ve
                  found a kind of afterlife—the townies hate

the damage to their varie-
gated hostas,
                  shade-side ferns—what they do inside white bunkers of

the county’s one good
course is “criminal”:
                  deep scuffs through the sand—that’s one thing—but

lush piles of polished-
olive droppings, hoof
                  ruts in the chemically- and color-enriched greens . . .

Yet here’s
one more, curled
                  like a tan seashell not a foot from my blade, just-

world fawn, speckled,
                  wet as a trout, which I didn’t see, hacking back

brush beneath my tulip
poplar—it’s not afraid,
                  mews like a kitten, can’t walk—there are so many, too

many of us,
the world keeps saying,
                  and the world keeps making—this makes no sense—more.