Fox. He.

I heard he was doing well
then I saw him laughing
face up.
fox in treasure
full moon
stunning pointed face
a blank
a witch hunt in the lead
his arms hot metal
in the cold
hurling, spiking
not knowing I am lost
in supermarkets
and magazines
and bathrooms
and photographs
and bottles
I’ve packed away the birds for winter
he will not have them
he has no choice