Prey

The fox, a soft tail tucked over
broken bones,
knows
how to lose himself.
Awash in the tall grasses
he waits
for everything to heal
just enough.

The luxury of time
(when we are healthy). And
(when we are not)
how every breath
ticks by – an immeasurable second,
an ache in our fragile, somewhat
forced chemistry.
A match of wits
begins, the most valuable
neurons, that need no rebuilding, that
(predator) prey
stalk, hide--
Love
is like this, hunted
down
as if
it is the only thing
capable
of feeding
a soul.

The fox remains
in the tall blades, sunlight tricking that
red fur to green, into
shades of browns, yellows.
And even the most valiant beast
among us knows enough
to lie down, be patient
and wait
for the glaring eye
of the moon
to rise; a
gale force wind to decimate
every last scent
of desire, a drumming rain to
wash the pain to just
below
the surface,

so we can run.