Of Foxes and Fences

I slip from shade to shadow

sniffing at the light,

tentative paw passing

shards of grass in icy sheaths,

pinpricked moonlight

as the world refracts, retracts

before my loping gait,

swift silence across

the flooded plains and

into welcome darkness.


Creature of the night,

wandering ages hence

where no wall nor fence

has ever stood and

standing, fell,

for no mending lasts

against shade and shadow

and the steady clock

tick-tock temporary line

until time is up.


The fox flows away

eyes alive to night,

returning me to I

my little sight of life.

Still, sometimes she calls,

stealthy vixen of the dark,

across flooded fields

piercing, painful, sharp:

a reminder of within

our many-voicéd kin.

“Dark Dances”

The dark depresses me,
soul hibernating in this
season of cold things
and distant love.

My self unfurls in curls
of smoke and wispy breath
to form the phrase I
have been looking for:

The milk-near word,
so close to the breast,
so far from the lips;
frozen by arctic winds.

Tomorrow comes slowly,
ends quickly,
and life goes rushing on
in underground tunnels,

subterraneous creatures
chasing wealth, warmth
and a hundred other
tired illusions.

Yet the darkness has
its own kind of clarity,
its own blind revelations
lurking in murky corners

of my manipulative mind,
where magic men
and myth meet,
where the dancing never ends.