Where Fox?

The real fox in my henhouse slipped 

betwixt my wrists lost unto forevermore

Their milky twists and turns

What better lover burns

Than this

And through and through 

Such vorpal teeth 

wrecked havage on my hens and geese

Swan songs curdled in throats

When their blood ran fowl
Still I hunt

Each night and day

Through thickened wood

Bramble patches, swampened ponds

Though nothing catches

Like the light of eyes

Buried in the void

Calls to me like a mother would

Beckons me like vengeance should
Oh I’ll reep what I have sewn 

And to no other my hands catch hold

Clasping, gasping, grasping air

Til none have found

What my soul laid bare

But me, myself and I alone

Do walk to death

With tales untold

No other birch nor fir nor oak

Will stand before my hunger

Ravenous mouth every stone uncovers
I’ll not end my search til loves run dry

And on the road, I, a passerby

Will pick it neatly from it’s bone

Hold at last my soul’s real home

For none come to me with impunity strike

And better far, off I’ll be to court some loneliness inside of me

When the hunt has died

There’s no more dead than what’s alive 

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