1317
10.viii.23
4.223
fox
for Chris Mansell
I met a fox in
the afternoon
same fox as of
days before
some dingo
brushwork at distance
but bushy tail
a giveaway
in the
afternoon, pressed on
limping, half
hopeful of me
quite ready to
think the worst
with those
hang fox eyes
sit, have a
scratch
so innocent, so
lonely
be almost
pet
make me a
little prince
it really was
a conversation
move for move,
in the stretch
all eyes
still, I could
imagine baying
I thought
where are the wallabies now?
what does a
bandicoot do?
and thought of
the neighbours then
their chickens
could smell my
own long since
and the ducks
the risk
…
later
recognized the den
a strawfold
between dam and creek
but too late…
I was wrong
long gone
true fairytale
apparition
now, lifting
the bung leg
this is dusk
fox
if they would
just take on feral cats
and have it
out
two birds with
one stone
self-managed
of course I have
no gun
here’s the
limp for pity yet
those nerves
and fox to
remind me
how neither of
us is of the place
I’m no less
feral
do much more
harm
of elsewhere
and yet here we are
how very far,
how very far
both weeds, so
much the same
I might
mention, too, I met the wife later
on four good
legs
and dragged
away some cardboard mulch
I think because
she could
but that was
another day
on the
occasion in question
we went on our
ways
I into my fire
the fox to its
fur under
gathered up,
hiding
in a place the
frost might not find
a still pause
in the long hunt, perhaps
as far as
trust
a fox upon my
mercy
one does what
must be done
the clever
eyes
and its own
taming
here’s the
invention of sly
I thought
I dreamt foxes
then
and where the
grass should burn
the three leg
fox accusing
he, too, now
as much a part
