The Fox
Are you quite certain that you’re safe in your bedroom?
Were you not warned about the fox that’s been let loose from the zoo and prowls the hills of this city?
Did you not see that he already passed your house?
How did you not notice his paws resting on the window
as he props himself up
to take a tally of things you own in your home.
The fox licks his lips.
What a cute little kitty you have.
Providence
Fog clings to the worn bricks for comfort,
and street lights hold fast to the quiet descent of dusk.
Providence breathes slowly,
a city half-asleep, contemplating,
knowing it once stood elsewhere,
beneath the waters, or beyond our concept of earth.
The trees of College Hill lean inward,
listening for footsteps that glide rather than echo.
Windows gape with spectral light,
illuminating rooms no person has touched in years.
Below, the river loops like a repeating thought,
reflecting pieces of earth that do not belong to us.
The air tastes faintly of salt and ink and
something older than soil or life.
This place does not speak loudly.
It hums…
low, beneath the breath,
a music that unsettles but does not repel.
You do not visit Providence.
You become it,
as if it had always been waiting
in the corners of your mind,
dreaming with you.
Of you.