i listen i watch










dogs may be able to smell early-stage tumours

i listen   i watch

a young fox  in my garden
corded shanks tensely wired

pale  pelt scotched in affliction
the small body ribbish and bald

except at the collar as though fox
had come  to wear itself in private

thin maleness caught out in wintry
light  the boned head stressed  alert

with that peculiar sadness  foxes carry
in what seems thoughtfulness unabated

thought a thing in this heavy world to be
endured as fleas  before he nods the snout

up and outwards eyes turned down  blindly
calm in my direction where i lean  made in-

visible by glass as though we might connect
at last  through smell  or he could tell in me

fresh disease


Mario Petrucci

Pic: Claire Palmer

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