The fox suite


Walking backwards under a stick

carrying my little fox,

our fur is lifeless, silent

and you are barely warm

in my failing. I am sorry

we must do this like this

but I am not the one doing it.


I wait for you, it’s your translucence

I follow with this piece of string

into and out of this mirror where

nothing lasts, with you my companion,

my little gold fox so tired,

it’s our selves to cross,

our night, in glass.






The birds prefer

their heads and toes in water,

their song to be the only song

underground, what they forget

in snow is the night 

breath of the fox running

and tears at the feet of the grass.

Why is so long so long and never,

that sun crashes all over us

as though we are the obstacle.

I prefer you, and may as well,

if we are to go around our lives

rather than through them.






Blood fox,

your music woke me

from my bellows, my ins

and the out, my daily contralto

of sad and subtle endings.

How the wind howls

for what it can’t be with.

Will I know you are gone

any more than I do,

and with what harmony

can I run away

from the crying crying night.

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