Morphoses

In every type of story, someone is always
asking— Is it winter or will it ever be spring;
will you come to me as a condition of weather,
or at last find me beautiful 
because all the forests are gone?  

Coming back to the city, we passed
a deer splayed open on the edge
of the highway, its limbs 
beginning to stiffen  
in the dust and heat.

What would it be like to wake  in the after-
life, and find ourselves positioned as images 
in a zoetrope? The cylinder spins;  as one 
looks through the slits,  the figures move 
and blur, always and never the same.