Tuesday, February 23, 2016


by David Chorlton

Along a voiceless trail
are the shadows of birds
who once flew over it,

and embedded in the dirt
the tracks a fox left
one full moon’s night

when its tail curled up
behind it with a spark
at the tip of each hair.

Language doesn’t help us
find a way back
to them, only grants

the means to ask where
they have gone, and whether
any other trail leads there.

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