This constant changing. Strange, new—honey locust
making a copper carpet on the grass.
A wave is rolling underneath: the past
gets bigger, different. More, and more, and less
myself. Dreaming today, I took a fox
to safety, though he struggled. Corridor
of green. Limited vistas, choices. Luck
runs out. Runs in. A constant guest, a floor
of coins. The fox wanted to fight
a dog: big, yellow, angry. No escape
but luck, that corridor. Now I am tight
within myself again. Wait for the wave,
the constant stranger, coming from below—
a fold the future makes inside my clothes.