spoor
then there’s the walk
the pulling on of the boots
the tightening and tying of the laces
the tracks they’ll leave in forest
the pattern of the tread
the length of the stride
the measure of the gait
traces in the soil in the snow
of himself and other animals
somewhere to be somewhere to go
…
then the pulling off of the boots
of the trick of perspective in the forest
like something approaching absence
and all that’s left
is the dirt on his hands
the sweat in his armpits
the stains upon the carpet
the snow melting to pool on the floor
in the distance from his chair to the door
