A chair is a deer

A chair is a deer, a doe, four-legged quiet molded into plastic. The chair in the woods, it nuzzles against trees. A child of trees, an eater of bark. wood: plastic; antlers: the limitless skies above chairs. The chair remains still as a form of camouflage. It is invisible to its predators. The looking: the contract between hunter and hunted. Also, the hiding. look at a chair. It looks back, waiting for what’s next.

A forest of chairs, a silent choir, the inverse of trees yet becoming trees. The sense organs of chairs: moist. pools of thought or sense. Inside the chair, a red city, a briefcase of blood.

There was a house where chairs were on the wall. The carpets were chairs. We ate chair. the clouds hunted the moon as the moon hid behind them and disappeared. Under what circumstances do we bring a chair into our home. The forest is the size of humans, not chairs. It is the inverse of our range.

Once, in early spring, we found a family of chairs in our yard. We spoke in whispers as if before a house of cards. The chairs were telepathic, each thought shared between the family of chairs. They waited as one, then leapt the fence with a single thought, a flock of birds with silent wings.

Outside, the cabin of our brain, leaves unfurling, branches completing their plans. We know the chairs are moving, dust motes in a slanting beam of forest light.