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.

 

i have been buried turning away

 

because you haven’t understood

 

to draw inside this tomb

 

is the only life to make

The samurai telephones in the dark,
she says the night broke in her head
and there is no valley anymore
between inside and out,
There is no river down which to float,
from the place of words
or the other pleasures,
She says there is nowhere to go,
that she is the stone
of the departed flow
and it really is that much, that cold,
the pressure of light that makes
so much dark the purpose,
She writes me a letter before it is over
and this is the boat that would sink
with our swords.