Antlers Reflected in Water
I wake with that fear again,
leaping then hindquarter stung.
I’m out and I’m fake.
How am I in charge of myself?
I’m wasted opportunity,
a bug lit for only a second.
I hiccup madly, remove the dart,
resume my unfounded fear of the future,
the usual abracadabra routine.
Should’ve stopped for that hit cat,
should’ve penetrated more deeply
as I swam those laps.
Instead, a still life: Darkness
with Eyes Closed, the haunting feeling
I’m the one who hit the cat.
Brian Builta
Brian Builta is a graduate of the University of Texas and lives in Arlington, Texas. His poetry has been published most recently in Ploughshares, Beatnik Cowboy, and Sugar House Review. He is the author of three collections of poems, and more of his poetry can be found at brianbuilta.com.
