The Fox Glove
Opening the door a bitter taste
filled her and owned the house.
Between the overpass and railway
the Victorian houses slept;
a terrace abandoned to its quiet where
families in each other's talk
felt too the endless traffic blur.
Sometimes a car beam dipping late
caught the gleam in the fox's eye.
Sometimes clinking bottles into place
the wild dissolved along the street.
But now the room
exploded fox.
Left outside to dry,
a shoe on its side
hard heel intact but the back,
a teeth sliced hole, raw smell.
Opening the windows wide
more sly smell folded in;
fitting the old house like a glove.
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