Christopher Hopkins writes

Foxes

And the foxes know more about me than 

google.

Every night their white sox 

and moustaches in the trash. 

The oxide wash under the satellites, 

sailing the darkness, 

between the scaffolding street light beams.

They cluck and bark as they talk about me.

Sharing gossip on the wind, with their watcher grace.

Pizza twice in a week, nosing the folds of boxes.

The overdraft bigger than last month, 

and the price of gas up again,

on chewed, crumpled logos.

‘He’s always pulled from the shores 

by the drowning moon’,

they tattle the modern turn 

of a heartache or a heart attack.

‘There was no architecture to his silent living’.

They shake their heads.

They look towards my door.

A look only a mother could give.

A fox bite from love's fanged lip, 

that promise, 

of the gentle perfection of worry.

My heart chewed over it,

remembering the living.

They would miss me dearly.

 Outfoxing Death -- Culpeo S. Fox