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Alone in a room of boxes

at the center of the woods,

he packs up his mottled universe,

tuning out the argument of crunching

leaves and blowing reeds,

muffling it, wisping it into the infinitely

halving Milky Way.

He strings his fishing pole and steps

outside, scouting the path for stones,

skirting a snarl of brush and rose briars.

Chipmunks and spiders skitter and dive,

making their ways deeper underground.

The trees are cilia, listening. The day's not saying

yes or no, never or now, just keep on.

His calf muscles are tight.

He bends and ties his shoe,

so that he can hesitate before he has to go;

a tiny solace, binding.