On days when I am sullen, I think of them:
fox of envy, hollow fox with black punched eyes.
Skittering fox skirting the road, fingers-in-the-pie fox,
egg-stealing fox licking thin black lips to red? Pretty little doll-fox.
Fox of bad nerves and pill-fox, Scotch-fox forever coupling
with glass-fox. Fox of the lamb and fox of the knife.
Closer, fox, and I trick you into my arms: whiskers
tasting the air, extravagant tail collaring my neck, your gekkering
echoing through my empty rooms. Fox of mother’s thoughts,
I swaddle you in song and whisper into your fearful, laid-back ears:
In what wood did you leave your young. To what hunger.