You, dog fox, dancer in the dark,
snapper-up of unconsidered trifles,
don’t look at me like that.
You’re curling your lip at me, moon-hunter,
backing away needle-toothed,
winged ears flattening against the bone.
Stop fretting about those sleeping pigeons
and hold my gaze. You’re a handsome beast
for a city dweller: could turn a lady into fox.
I want to grab you, mouse-catcher,
in your marvellously-tailored dream-coat,
dig my fingers into your furred lapels
and hold on tight for a rough ride.
And we could join forces, bone-cruncher:
I’d cook up those chickens for the two of us.
So show me the foxtrot, rats’ bane,
and I’ll teach you the slow waltz.
Before you disappear into the dark
let’s go out on the razzle –
you in your carnival mask,
me in my red fox fur.
From The Invention of Fireworks. Reproduced with kind permission from Templar Poetry.