For T
I remember reading a story once,
set in Victorian England,
about a gentleman whose young wife
—in an unexplained miracle
of the very worst kind—
gradually turns into a fox.
And here you are sitting in our kitchen
at a quarter to one in the morning,
dressed in someone else’s coat,
smelling of neglect and nights
without the comfort of sleep.
Are you well?
Such a useless question
when thirst is slowly unravelling summer
from your skin,
your hair,
your eyes,
from the corners
of your mouth.
We offer you the couch
but you are racing across fields,
Winter’s cold breath pounding in your ears.
