The Home of the Foxes

Gabriel Muoio

The Home of the Foxes

foxes live in holes, Jesus said,
and as white water does from

virgin coasts to the comfort of an
unbegotten all, the foxes as

night’s chill descends
retreat to earth’s enclosing hands &

outside is a world that whistles,
because beset by squalls—

it is a dream that blusters now
alone out there & the foxes,

not seeing, and not
believing that there is a

low meadow between two
unchanging inland seas, with

the temperament of all quick
things forget—forget what bones are

buried, & what lives they’d lost
to nature’s tearing teeth and mist.

The foxes in their holes forget that those whose
eyes, immobile & innocent of the fact of death,

are forced to behold all God’s stars
do not die of awe, & see space as

only unmasked creatures could—in another
winter of the mind dragging light like moss and hay

into their endless beds—home, home,
between the rivers & a deep, low meadow; home.

 

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