Approaching Sleep

/ /

In the dark of night the fox, alert,
circles the garden, but not for prey.
The bright blossoms have closed.
Only the eye
of the silent prowler
can make out color.

He seeks an entrance
past thorns and fences.
But the garden
is forbidden.
That is its allure.
Who enters will be transformed.

Memory, his enemy,
Ignore it. Wait till it ends.
Time doesn’t matter.

Slower and slower,
still single-minded, he tests
and probes. Imperceptibly
the slim body lightens,
breaches the boundary at last
and is scattered.