the fox awoke

the fox awoke to find that he was a turtle.

where his hair had been red, sheen, a few spikes, now there was a shell.

he wasn’t moving very well.

where he had hopped, skipped, flitted, snook, scampered

now he was hampered.

each blade of grass, each dusty stone, each sandy step a hurdle.

 

the turtle, as now he was, and was not a fox

was not consumed with the same foxy things he was previous

he was devious

he prayed inside his shell, prayed for truth, peace, nirvana

it was a sauna

and the turtle napped inside his own darkness, while clocks

 

elsewhere ticked, onward and onward and the turtle

found with his nesting

that all the rest was just his resting

he found inside his sleep

that there were caverns of his soul a million miles deep

he found inside his solitude

that without the viewing things are viewed

and that ones nudity does not make one nude

and that his whole fox life he had been brewing but now alone, imploded, eroded, shelled and quelled, he is now brewed

the soul of this fox, not body double billed

but distilled.

were you to take a fox, this fox, and melt him till his edges curdle

 

there’d be a turtle and no fox

no sideways gallops or packs descending

no bloody ending

for turtles live decades, a century, millennia in their shell

and foxes go to hell

so good for our friend, who met his end and kept on living amongst the other rocks

 

inside of himself, neighbored only to his own breath

his glorious turtled living, its own kind of death.

 

 

 

 

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