October 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Five
Andrew Aulino
A Fog of Foxes
For A.K.S.

One morning at least fifty foxes
crossed Meadís pasture together
and passed through
the fence like a vapor.

I stood shuddering;
but of that red,
a claw and a comb of fur
were all I touched.

That was how time was, then;
the meadowlike present,
being so flat, bored you
but the coming weeks
refused to come.
I shivered in them

as if inside a fog of foxes
whose misstepped paws
were the moments I could catch.

Once Iíd weathered those
pawlike days, I wore the scars of my
maturity proudly; such things
were harder won when I was old.
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