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