Whenever the revolution breaks out
\nin this country, he’s ready to go, dressed
\nin camouflage all the way up to the visor
\non his cap, but today outside the town store,
\nfast-talking with his lips close together<\/p>\n
to hold in his upper plate, Russell doesn’t
\nrant about how the government is taking away
\nour freedom, or the surprise the terrorists
\nare in for if they show up in his front yard,
\nbut the neighbor who shot his deer, the doe<\/p>\n
he’d been making friends with all summer.
\nHas he always talked to deer, or did it start after
\nhis kids left and his wife of forty ears moved
\nout on him? – first to the doe, then to the little
\nfaun she left behind, going down on his haunches<\/p>\n
right there beside the gas pumps to show how
\nhe walked toward it, whispering to coax it
\nout of the road and into the woods beyond.
\nRussell isn’t in the road when I drive to the dump
\npast his lonely scarecrow and his house like a bunker<\/p>\n
with high windows nobody can look into,
\nbut I think of him, no taller than a faun himself
\nas he squats down and walks, trying to find
\nthe words for the danger that lurks all around
\nthe two of them, and the need for safety.\n
Follow McNair’s thinking about this poem through his revisions of it.\u00a0(Line changes are highlighted in yellow; revised line breaks are indicated by yellow verticals.)<\/span><\/p> <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\t\t