the foxes rounded the wolf into a hunt they once claimed to be victims of; i only started to pawn my face for a paper mâché mask when, reason being: i couldn't look at your reminding "human" face capable of a white wine toast over dinner to scone and clear a conscience: for a jam lodged pauper in being fed the sweets jelly.*

a dry call of a fox couples
itself to a wet cry of a wolf:
the smoker's ha woo
in fox in him
compliments
the northern aquatic frozen
tonne waved in
the atlantic forever in
guised goodbye;
the fox with its dry claim
mates aired, relieves
the lost wolf the lost land
to crave once more
a ripe 1 primed on the digit.
so many foxes
surround the one howled remark
of wolf;
dried up orphic of the one
night song suggested
to the human tongue
lost among fears and onomatopoeias
sojourn with autumnal
gravity of darkened brown
rekindled next year.