The fox is the one who bothers me-no, maybe it is the wolf, or the owl,
or the doe, who stares at me with wide wild eyes from a bush.
The deer emerges from the woods every morning before I go to school,
at my house in Flushing, on the road that curves like a wide v.
The fox lives in its den. The water runs in its brook. Clouds scuttle
across the sky; my father breaks his new boat. Here, I sit on the porch,
leafing through dumb magazines, words crawling across my hair. Sunlight
is broken. Everything is broken.
The fox is the one who bothers me. He is the one who makes me frustrated,
like I have to paint some giant painting for him to see me, know me, understand me.
This is not like a Disney movie where everything happens the way it should. This is not Greece, or Italy, or Rome. This is Jackson, Michigan, and I am sitting here,
typing this on my broken typewriter, spinning stories so God won't know.