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Poem
I. Sighting

I saw you  
through refracted light-  
a prism of chance  
splitting ordinary into spectrum.  
Wind-tangled hair  
terra cotta and rosemary beneath your nails  
the scent of soil and citrus on your skin.  
You carried mysteries-living things  
I wanted to cradle.

I didn’t find you-  
you found me  
tracking laughter’s ghost  
through the market’s crush  
your eyes mapping longitudes on my wrist  
before your hands ever dared.

You sat,  
quiet defiance in denim and chipped polish.  
The dreamer in you claimed territory  
in my chest,  
while you remained  
unaware.

The dreamer in me surrendered-  
with the awe of old cartographers  
gazing at blank edges  
where monsters might dwell  
and the world unspools  
into wonder.

II. Re-inked Skin of Ghostly Narratives

Was it then-  
the blood orange?  
Memory insists:  
a vendor near the station  
strangers colliding in stream.  
First bite:  
sun-warm  reckless juice  
streaking my chin 
staining my shirt-  
testament I wore all day.

At thirty-three,  
dumbfounded by how little I understood  
of hunger-  
how desire redraws the map  
of intention.  
Yesterday and tomorrow  
collapsed  
into a trembling bite:  
an unexpected azimuth  
for all future calculations.

Your darkness peopled with ghosts.  
Your mind: perpetually Monday—  
always beginning again from broken pieces  
an archaeologist  
palming fragments  
without knowing the vessel’s shape.

Above your bed,  
paper moons taped to the ceiling  
watched over sleep.  
Your nightmares’ guttural language  
translated itself into my tongue  
until I could not tell  
what you dreamed  
from what I feared.

You wanted sacred geometry,  
cathedral symmetry.  
I wanted forbidden texts  
the ashes of burnt libraries  
hidden in soot-rubbed satchels
Yet in this stratigraphy of contradictions,  
we excavated each other-  
layer by trembling layer.

III. Vulpine

When the earth opened its mouth  
to claim you,  
why didn’t I dissolve-  
become mist,  
untraceable?

Why did I kneel  
at the precipice  
offering myself for judgment  
accepting the verdict  
before the plea?

That night,  
a fox-  
russet ghost at the periphery  
too clever for direct vision.  
Just as you exist now:  
resistant to straight perception  
visible only in sidelong remembrance.

My hands,  
stronger than my voice  
released what bound us.  
Final threads unwound  
from my throat-  
the last evidence  
separating me  
from the underworld  
where memory fractures  
and time unspools.

Or perhaps I never released you.  
Perhaps you slipped  
through my fingers-  
like water,  
like time,  
like certainty.

Some mornings,  
fox prints scatter the snow  
toward and away from my door-  
evidence of visitation  
I cannot verify.

Somewhere in the numbness,  
our parallel futures  
attempt to manifest.  
I look up-  
expecting your voice   urgent as prophecy  
to illuminate my darkness.

Then:  
only blank pages.  
Three winters emptied
A narrative.  
Your story.  
My story.  
Unwritten chapters.

But when I close my eyes,  
you are tomorrow-  
not yesterday.

IV. Nocturnal Territories

In midnight solitude:  
something else breathes  
beyond the mechanical heartbeat  
of seconds  
and the blue-lit thrushsong
trembling beneath my hand.

Through the window,  
no constellation-  
only something more intimate  
buried in shadow  
infiltrating isolation:

      A fox moves  
          through brittle undergrowth-  
          the silken of paws  
              amber eyes  
                  serving movement  
                      that now  
                      and again now  
                      and again-  
      leaves delicate evidence  
      in softened earth.

Watchful shadows pause  
between heartbeats  
the bold geometry of a being  
claiming space  
across invisible boundaries.

Concentrated brilliance in motion,  
attending to what matters until-  
with the sharp, unmistakable presence  
of wildness-  
it enters me:

amber eyes reflecting firelight,  
russet fur carrying the scent  
of earth and blood orange,  
careful paws printing  
the soft terrain of memory.

I recognize you in this creature’s deliberate progress-  
the way it navigates darkness  
without fear  
the way it exists  
fully in its knowing.

No absence more hollow,  
no loss more severe.  
You were sanctuary  
a magnificent archway  
where the fragile could shelter.

Your creative arc still ascending-  
a comet whose trajectory  
I can no longer track.

With your departure,  
the veil between worlds  
thins.  
Yet meaning persists-  
like fox prints in new snow  
like the scent of blood oranges in December  
like the cartography of desire  
redrawn each night  
as I trace constellations  
of our brief convergence.

I didn’t find you-  
you found me.  
And having been found  
I cannot return  
to who I was  
before you taught me  
to see what exists  
beyond the mapped territories,

in the wilderness  
where a fox’s eyes  
are both warning and welcome-

pawprints  
vanishing  
in the vulpinity  
of first light.
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