Vert

As in green, vert, a royal demesne

stocked with deer. Invert as in tipped

as a snow globe, going nowhere in circles

but not lost, not bereft as the wood

without deer, waiting for the white antlered

buck, or his does, or any slim yearling

to step along the berm, return. Vertigo

as in whirling round, swimming in the head,

unanchored by the long spring,

the horse cantering, the meadow dropping

like an elevator into the earth, falling

like Persephone through a crevice, a swiveling

crack, a loose screw, a lost way. Disordered

as in death lasts, my brother’s not coming back.

The spin of it continuous as in looking down

from height, and then it stops, the spinning

just slows, a chariot wheel stilled in grass.

The world is the same, but it isn’t. The tipped

views of trees when hanging from your knees.

The deer in twos and threes watching.