Fox

Follow the fox into the neck of the woods.

Rustle and I are leaving to the small house by Lost Creek.

Hallow esophagus,

explain the end to us

when life goes beyond my eventually ending breath

where the problem will surface again.

The spirit is stolen through the words on a sheet

of paper planes blowing from the way you breathe

and make believe letters

that you're writing to no one

but so particular as to what it ought to say.

I wave to trees as my finally calmed breeze

blows back the distance I swore I wouldn't see.

Now the small house is fading, in the fog that's relaying

a message to another time

of something you drew on my hand.

Heroine save me from my bad habit

its the best thing I know how to do.

You're cunning in nature

but took the houses in favor

of a future in fogless air-conditioning.