Remarks on a Fox

There is no wind, there is no reprieve
from this summer and it's heat.
There is the cicadas doing, and things are always as they seem.

So. I walk, shirt undone
to the garden.
This is where the grass has gone to seed
for the last time.
Nothing moves
in this heat
except for you
and I am shaken silent.

You are brush fire
almost everywhere
suspicious among a 1ooo weeds.
I do not move
and suffer
to see your hidden underside.
Your incurable distance
is my undoing, knowing to only touch your blond belly,
I would follow
your hungry body back into the wood,
like entering deep waters.

that giving chase
would be unwise,
moving over the ragged meadow
you appetite shows simple wild
and you own teeth.

This I accept