Too Manymy 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-
menace; plague; something should be done.
Or here in town,
found a kind of afterlife—the townies hate
the damage to their varie-
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 . . .
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.