Caki Wilkinson

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.


2 thoughts on “Fox

  1. Ms. Wilkinson, It`s a “3:15 am ain`t sleepin` poetry readin` on the NET night,” and the second thing I`ll say here is that I tip my hat to you for your poem “Fox.” You`re a real crackerjack at internal rhyme, a technique which I have always appreciated. I found some kindred spirit stuff in reading some of your other poems and bio info. Uno, I lived in Houston for 31 years from 1978-2009, and I had a dear departed friend who knew Vassar Miller and would occasionally visit with her. I remember when Vassar died, some pretty heavy hitters in the poetry community attended her service. I also knew a Persea Books author in the Houston days. Lastly, congratulations on all those prestigious and hard-earned awards! You have obviously worked very, very hard at your craft, and I think I`ll tip my hat for that a second time here before I see if there are any decent movies on at this hour. (PS: I taught high school English for 15 years.) All the best for your future! Kindest regards, Jim C.

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