An introvert fox thinks to herself.
‘There hasn’t been a day without
apologies for a mistake in written text.’
The more she regrets, the harsher
the language. They are not friends,
yet they share a memory house
and wash their feet in the same river
ancestors had washed theirs,
a thousand years ago.
The fox approaches everything
with restraint; a bit reluctant
to split things in binary groups,
slightly critical of the world’s chaos.
At times, she is angry, in moderation,
with someone she can
nor understand nor shut up
but, nevertheless, wants to punish.
As if one should be made to pay for
the things said or done, when sleeping.
Though, historically, such cases are known.
We talk about them in poetry classes.
Illustration Nick Victor