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
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.