There’s a furtive current bending my will,
Perched in nonchalance as night slowly cowers;
The turquoise fox slips by my windowsill.
My Thoughts are lost on memory’s lone hill,
Echoed solemn through the fed drip of hours;
There’s a furtive current bending my will.
This hollow thirst, this thirst I can’t fulfill
Flakes mottled in her night of ours;
The turquoise fox slips by my windowsill.
Glimpsed the tail: a splayed thread to unravel twill
Or the crimson shadow presaged by scours;
There’s a furtive current bending my will.
The tussle segues to the dull groan of a beaten thrill-
Caressed oblique in each poignant bead of nightly showers;
The turquoise fox slips by my windowsill.
Cold’s messenger hummed a frost to glass’s chill,
Eyes strain a fear for the secret lost before it flowers.
There’s a furtive current bending my will.
The turquoise fox still slips by my windowsill.
