To a dead fox

dead fox

It was the morning after

the night we were forced to say good-bye

you and your kind, too, are neighbours

often walking the road home

on weekday evenings after work.

Those nights you and yours, unfazed,

silent and determined, blending with brick and park

remind us of the great woods this all once was.

It was the morning after

the clock striking eleven

-for fuck’s sake, not even twelve-

it was that morning after then

we saw you in the distance, still,

golden, up close nearly smiling,

stiff, furry, were you at all alive?

Where were you going, what fence

did you trespass,

were you hunted, did you flee,

were you home or not yet there?

Did you just drop dead,

were you hit, then your body moved,

were you cold, ill and hungry,

or merely tired, not sick but old,

was your time up or were you poisoned,

did you simply fall asleep,

halfway here, halfway there,

pavement and grass, grey and green,

savvy animal, wise and wild,

yet trapped and doomed to hiding,

pretending never to be scared,

instead daring, uncaring and free?

How did you meet this end,

the morning after,

was it quick, painless,

just routine,

or laborious, agonising,


gasping loudly after air,

(the park runners this a.m.

take reign of what used to be,

my friend, your kingdom)

every noise tremendous,

your suffering unheard?

You lie there, waiting.

Someone will have to find you a place.

Le temps déborde

Chaque jour plus matinale

Chaque saison plus nue

Plus fraîche

-Paul Éluard, La vie, 1926


[and with apologies to Mr Cave]



“I get lucky/I get lucky”

sings the voice:

this morning

always to-day

(was it yesterday?)

as the day dawns slowly

yet impossibly quick- unstoppable.

We get lucky.

Each day more

like a morning


like that morning

in the 10th arrondissement

with Let Love In looping

(could not have been

a tape, could it?)

we wrote “Liberty”

here and there

on the walls

the bridges

every stone

again and again

from city to city

we get lucky

we get lucky



because we try and try again

the world becomes more

like morning

every day.

He spoke to us

of eternity




There is nothing like peer review

to infuse in you the fear for writing.

One has to take the plunge one morning

and write for no other reason but the dew.

Whatever this is it is not autobiographical:

things do not have to be avant la lettre;

things can mean something else

not referring to the speaker, nor to

you, dear reader, of all people.

She did not marry him-

she was someone else,

and he was simply her invention.

That is the thing with poetry,

the focus, as you know, is on words

and lines and all those blank spaces;

god only knows what that void means,

like code, it makes you pay attention:

every character counts for different reasons,

in the context of its space and what is near.


Pessoa’s last names were his penance.


Blue Star

When Patti and Robert met

they slept covered by a blanket of stars.

Art did get them,

and in the end

they let anyone who wasn’t them

sing the song of their innocence.

Flowers and birds,

hunger and passion,

gifts and symbols:

a black bow for Baudelaire,

glass beads for Rimbaud,

a poem song for Janis,

a career for Jimi,

the paying of respects for Jim,

a modest necklace from Persia.

So many others decided

what would happen to them.

Star lovers, they needed

a constellation to shine.

Yet their fate was written

in the New York City sky,

the day they met.

There are other love stories

like this one but not everyone

ever  learns to truly love and keep

the distance that makes

the bond.

They did.

The light of that blue star

reaches us, the heart of youth

beating today

in memory and silver,

paper and black and white.

Flowers: windows

snapshots of who we are, still,