With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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Years ago, one night when I was sad, I asked for a sign;
I’ve forgotten why.
All I remember now
is that two deer stepped onto the beach below:
their hooves clinked when they crossed the shale,
and when they walked up the beach,
their hoof prints filled with seawater.
Each pool held a moon.
I sat on that rock and tried to understand what it meant.
The stink of kelp floated closer;
coarse fronds washed back and forth
while the sea breathed below me.
Now I know it wasn’t a sign.
It was just thirty or forty holes, shining.