Venison Are coin of a past realm: degraded and worn down by the calmer meats, de-beaked, ink spashed, dumb; the deer inflate across the towns, tick-rich, collared, some sterilized, but still a numinous stew of brown boxes, on stripling legs, or the sun strained divine through their ears’ big pink shells, are bark being skinned, teeth in a blind. The park of hinds and hounds is gone highway; tawny is ordinary to the lawn. We are gone from wolves to bad fawns for them, nuisance tin at the heart of silver; to be picked off; in our cars; delicious saplings in the mown—
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