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.


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 toward 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

About Caki Wilkinson
Caki Wilkinson is the author of "The Wynona Stone Poems" (Persea Books, 2015). She teaches at Rhodes College and lives in Memphis, Tenn.

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(c) 2015 Caki Wilkinson. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate