“If the mind is like a hall in which thought is like a voice speaking, the voice is always that of someone else.”
— Wallace Stevens
Unravelling beauty in the imagination,
like the halls where sleep answers in a voice that is not our own.
The portmanteau of amber fur
mixed with black,
the white of the eyes
surrounded and circular.
He pads forward adagio
a tender velour of mouth
and a cackle in the hedgerows
thrusts its call toward our ears,
in which the prosthetic leg of night
coasts into ground’s well-hollow,
more of a pond
than blanket of darkness
where he swims with tail in tow,
the prodigy of all those who adore
But before that,
he stands upon two almond feet
and presents me with silver:
a soft slink
of god-knows what –
or something else?