the fox called wises
flicks away the fleas
paw over paw and he
waves his tail so gracefully
wizard, waiting, wistful wises
asks me about my eyeballs
paw over paw and he
licks the red dirt off of my elbows
‘tell me where your garden lies’
says I and he looks surprised
paw over paw and wises he does
take in a large breath for size
my garden tastes like the violin
coloured like clay-corn and silver
bugs, twelve minutes of moon,
the sun almost always high risen
folly-wig and leafy scent smells
flowers flock and renaissance
masterpieces lying facedown in the lake,
trees bent over, smelling you
the garden is where the light shines,
but it is too where the light does shine not
perhaps it is lost in the desert,
or swimming so solemn in sea
it sleeps safely in a hoffbrock tree
pops pennies in pockets so proud
marches mildly through meadows
peaceful, unwary of sound
sometimes it starts to dry out
but mostly it bursts with its might
the body in which the garden lives
can hardly contain its great sight
the fox garden blooms inside you
and the wallaby’s and walruses
whippets, willows and wasps
the woodpeckers and wildebeests
the fox flowers live inside of you
growing out of your brain so bright
that the light coming out of your eyeballs
could blind a winged witch of the night