You tagged me with this meme: The deer isn’t crossing the road / The road is crossing the forest, the hind’s hooves tentative, skittering, eyes in constant startle, and so of course I surmise I am directed to side-step the Möbius strip of traffic swerving inside you, the honk and curse of decrees snagging in your throat and I wonder (but not aloud) if this a problem we need to solve right now, but here we are and what else is there to do (there are weeds), and so I child again, try, as trained, to second-guess and cosset, to remain nonplussed in this dry country of hard gestures, your palms in psalms of imprecation so unlike moss or pine a deer could die of fright.