Fox

The yards grow ghosts. Between the limbs and wings,
bleached street-lit things, I’m best at moving on.
Hunt-heavy, gray, slunk overlow like so
much weight got in the way, my shape’s the shape
of something missed, flash-pop or empty frame.
Though you could say I’ve made a game of this,
and though midtrickery it might be true,
when evening lingers in the key of leaving
my senses swoon. A synonym for stay,
I’m always coming back. I chew through traps.
I love whatever doesn’t get too close.

Credit

Copyright © 2015 by Caki Wilkinson. Used with permission of the author.

About this Poem

“One summer a few years back I was in the habit of walking my dog late at night, and I kept spotting a fox (or maybe foxes, but I always felt like it was the same one) stealing through people’s yards towards the ball fields by my house. That’s the image—too fast for a double take—I had in mind when I started this poem.”
Caki Wilkinson