Slaughtered Stalks

Corn ghosts linger
over slaughtered stalks
in Elmer’s field, where

thirteen deer, songless, bound
out of the neutral zone
of the land trust.

In foliage-free turns
of the wheel, no antlers
betray prize kill

as it jetés on a bullet line
toward muted woods
and crouching fluorescent terrorists.

You know to deflect
from my car. If I were
my neighbor, you’d go home

a dozen.