A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest by Emily Dickinson

 A wounded deer leaps highest,    I’ve heard the hunter tell;    ‘T is but the ecstasy of death,    And then the brake is still.    The smitten rock that gushes,The trampled steel that springs;A cheek is always redderJust where the hectic stings! Mirth is the mail of anguish, In which it cautions arm, Lest anybody spy the blood And “You’re…

An exhibit

Suppose the items you left behind were put on display. Texture and touch concealed by glass. Images of you and others framed and hung up…