“You will learn to understand this
about the animals:
that they give chase on rutted trails
and by night are hunted down
trails which are gores of fire.
That thirteen slain deer
on a mountainside is a song;
the drench of blood into wet moss
music slower than you can bear.
That that which is, is–
you carve a wooden image of the Dancer.
The beast runs with Her through his blood.
Among the forest you sense hidden doors.
Behind those doors we live:
The antler its own weapon.
The body its own larder.
The bone-heap its own marker.”
*…these words, from a corner near the ceiling of Marty Cohen’s apartment in Buffalo, NY, Thanksgiving, 1970.