The night in Where I Live
Is a fit-sleep of dark and clatter:
The foghorn of rattling trains;
The rainy rain and maddened wind
in the stubborn itch of branches;
The drunken whistle-wails of emergencEEEEEeee]
Snapped short. And at the turn
Shrieking foxes
Quarreling over the rubbish.
What are you fighting for, old patchwork fox?
Slippery egg shells and mouldy bread;
A tin of beans; an old soap box;
or
Broken words made of things once said.
Enfin, c’est bête.
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