tonight--my walk
there was fog, a rare vapor
on these prairies

perhaps there  
because I had just read of London,
and German bombs falling through its mythic miasma,
though the only sound that disturbed
this nocturnal glaucomic vision
was a lone siren,
a fire truck, vanished
into the ether,
to save a life

I suppose, since
there was no fire
there was, on the next block
in halogen haze
a fox; I know
you

you ate the
fat black pet hare
the neighbors
mourned  

tonight,
you, and I were on a stroll--I tracked you
just to see your fine tail, hear your soundless
pads on the pavement, knowing the sight and silence of you
were as rare as the misted air

then,
a truck came
its lights making you disappear
and waking me
from this cold
perfect dream