It runs through, like deer, swiftly coming.
Shaken by the sudden, upraised head.
It is hasty, in its bunchy, muscle flexing. Time elapses and on it runs.
But this is, in fact its grazing ground, and back it comes.

Grotesque Dahlias, rail against the indignity,
of its presence in the formal garden.
They prim back down their faces,
to the left.

And I, I am here, in heaping, weeping, crashes on the shore.
I postulate to the unseen for its protection,
as I prim back down my face and
to the left.