A Dream Of Foxes

fox who can blame her for hunkering into the doorwells at night, the only blaze in the dark the brush of her hopeful tail, the only starlight her little bared teeth? and when she is not satisfied who can blame her for refusing to leave, Master Of The Hunt, why am i not feeding, not being fed? the coming of fox one evening i return to a red fox haunched by my door. i am afraid although she knows no enemy comes here. next night again then next then next she sits in her safe shadow silent as my skin bleeds into long bright flags of fur. dear fox it is not my habit to squat in the hungry desert fingering stones, begging them to heal, not me but the dry morninngs and bitter nights. it is not your habit to watch, none of this is ourrs, sister fox. tell yourself that anytime now we will rise and walk away from somebody else's life. any time. leaving fox so many fuckless days and nights only the solitary fox watching my window light barks her compassion. i move away from her eyes. from the pitying brush of her tail to a new place and check for signs. so far i am the only animal. i will keep the door unlocked until something human comes. one year later what if, then, entering my room, brushing against the shadows, lapping them into rust, her soft paw extended, she had called me out? what if, then, i had reared up baying, and followed her off into vixen country? what then of the moon, the room, the bed, the poetry of regret? a dream of foxes in the dream of foxes there is a field and a procession of women clean as good children no hollow in the world surrounded by dogs no fur clumped bloody on the ground only a lovely line of honest women stepping without fear or guilt or shame safe through the generous fields.