Black ponies, closed glass windows, yellowing
Hillsides. Detective novels, girls in creamy
White face paint, hiding inside
The world outside the world.
I slept with my bear and never spoke, or only
In gesture: my small hand drawing small worlds
On bits of scrap-paper. Wild foxes,
Their warm bodies submerged in mange,
Desire, and deathly illness, creeping
Through the blinding wet gauze of daylight.
When I stroke the animal’s warm white neck,
It purrs, like an animal. I am performing
Death, its final three stages, tracing the language
Of its incision, listening for its God-like ring.