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I imagine this midnight moment’s forest: Something else is alive Beside the clock’s loneliness And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star: Something more near Though deeper within darkness Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow, A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf; Two eyes serve a movement, that nowAnd again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the sno Between trees, and warily a lame Shadow lags by stump and in hollow Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye, A widening deepening greenness, Brilliantly, concentratedly, Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox It enters the dark hole of the head. The window is starless still; the clock ticks, The page is printed.
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