Vixen On the Top Road
Let her begin again, the sun
a note just off the audible edge of rising,
the dog setting his ears straight.
Let moisture gather in the corners of her
mouth until she twists her lips against
her teeth. That other wetness,
let it come too, the one small breath
and the next. Who says itís more
becoming to slam the screen door
against the bloody horizon?
Who says she canít do a quick fox dance
the color of morning, admit itís yearning
that makes her human, even if
later she has to turn away?
Book of Common Prayer
by Nancy Dunaway