Four days he circled, his fur
matted with mud-sludge and thick beneath
with burrs we imagined
tight against his skin, though he moved
each night, further in: mornings, his prints
(the mud dried within
here and there, into tiny peaks) marked
the steps of the porch
then the porch itself, until
in daylight, we’d look up
and he was there, sitting
beside some farm object—truck,
white lilac, compost heap—
erect as a question
though calm, direct, a tourist
posing by a monument, hands
folded quietly, neatly dressed.
Though quick as he arrived
he was off, down the road through the corn
where we never remember seeing him.
Copyright © Persea Books 2011
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