Fox

Fox trots. He trips
the light fantastic over silver-spangled fields.
The filigree of bracken bows before him. Breaks.
Star shards try to pierce his coat,
and fall aside,
all glittery deadly.

He blinks,
melts milky cataracts, the frozen shine on his eyes.

When frost bites, Fox bites back.

He slips uphill through bones of trees
their shadows rake the flanks of earth.
He skips over rimy stones,
the old dog’s grave. Pisses there,
says Fox passed by. Throws back his head and laughs.

Under the brush pile
the mouse hushes her blind children.
Under the halo of the yardlight
the congregation of cats scatters.
Under the kitchen table
the young dog sleeps.
A dirge seeps from his O mouth
when Fox streaks red
through his black/white dream.

Below, the city smoulders, embers
banked against blackness.
Stale regret hangs above
like smoke. He smells it, hears the susurration
of their confessions, their obligations.

Meaningless.

He curls his black lip, moongleam on tooth, sniffs.
His sharp crystalline breath a fox thought:

beautiful chaos,
a dizzying blizzard of down in the dove cote
or
a sapphire explosion, snow and marrow,
fur and sinew and flesh.
The shriek. Then silence.

Cold hunger gnaws at his belly but Fox is his own bright flame.
He runs. Runs as though he would set fire to the whole world.


JH