fox smiles in the fog mist
of Saturday's national air,
bricked doorways stucco'd surroundings
blinked out down to a red stoplight
aimed in alien shaft across
a small man in brown plaid
with a tiny brown bottle
clenched in teeth-ringed fingers,
grass money protruding wild
flower from the front pockets,
remote button eyes, the breath
of palms upon the weary wind's
television circuit.

fox smiles in scorched hair pretty
as real apocalypse, in a famished dress
flinting far dreams against
the ailing springs, snakes in her mind
like the threat of an engine oil spider.

fox limps out of the garage, a pure xerox
of winningly flawed teeth, the titter
of raven feet and squirrel activity
fluttering against the sheen
of a projected world, the look in the eyes
of a whole place in time dying out
among the basket strainers of reason.