My path
curls back to myself
and I
trot,
diffident,
confused, silent,
around
it, alongside it,
but
always on its hazy edges
trying to
figure out where it heads -
getting
lost, losing track and regaining -
all with
the wiliness foxes are born with.
Trying to
trace it, and retrace it
from all
hilltops
from all
rock mounds
with my
glassy animal eyes.
With them
I seek to understand my footprints -
the
silly, malicious footprints that only foxes leave behind.
The times
I am not that fox are the wrong times,
escapades
which I do not deserve;
my window
frames are not that beautiful and not that sad
for they
are etched in the foxiness of ill grown habits.
It is to
this fox that I return to
and find
myself again and again.
