Foxes cross, their furtiveness cancelling their fleetness
Around a blind bend at eighty, your feet aren’t quick enough to cease us
In the glovebox a shoepolish tin of Fox’s glaciers rattle like boxed rocks when the bow bends
The fox in heat drags an unseen musk, his mist the smell of a cupboard thrice masturbated in
Bumper knocks him clear, no gaudy scar, his life deleted
Black as peat the road and white stripes.
Alchemisland 
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