Stones and then Breadcrumbs
Because you mean to return,
you mark your movements by dropping stones.
Pebbles tumble from your twisted grip
like baby teeth from gums.
Someone creeps along behind you,
pocketing the rocks.
The way you came has been erased.
You try it again,
shredding bread as if to denature it into grain,
Later, you search the leaves
for any message, how did you come here?
Did you flatten any foliage
by stepping on it,
or does the world simply fill back in
any dents, any record of your displacement?