portion for foxes.

March 16, 2015 § Leave a comment

each night the red fox comes

and turns, and looks at me

and I do not follow him into the bedroom

I run to Abba, and drink my milk.

each night the red fox comes;

when I wake I am sweating and trembling and lie

room lit for thirty seconds

when I drift back I cannot avoid his eyes, for they are my own

full of all the wrong things I’ve done-

both leaving and returning to me

night after night, as though I am trying to purge myself

of myself.

each night the red fox comes

and burns me up;

I close the door on the me that made love without love

I shut down the dream as though it were not my soul ending.

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