In the gateless garden I always waited.
One Sunday morning, as quiet descended
I let the first yellow of the world
come inside to visit.
Aren’t all risks incalculable?
First she danced in the birdbath
tinkering with the angles and I said
you’re welcome. I am a borderless state —
no blockhouses or razor-wired snafus in these bones, no,
just a calm voice floating across the lawn,
beckoning your company.
Keep me still, I say, but too fast
the filigreed strands of a spider’s perfect work
catch torn on the fox’s black nose. My upraised hands,
six robins, the blood.
Fear exaggerates each snapped twig.
Who lives here? Ghosts without eyes,
clocks with no memory.
A man with no shape.
What prey is he?
This is the territory of the hunted.
The once-wounded fight back the hardest,
flailing against even the unseen.