The Last One

still dark ahead of me

a fox stands in the road

senses me, nose high wheels & lopes away

the moon’s chin nibbled

cloud a dolphin birthed from a smoking volcano

three dolphins rummage a marsh creek

two blocks further a second fox

dead in the road

abdomen neatly torn, yellow coils

auburn coat, white-tipped tail

slender legs, black feet stilled

the mouth smiles, every moment this joy

two feet in each hand I could but don’t

flip it into the ditch for gleaning

back home hummingbirds weave the garden

I fail to turn on a light

burn the bacon, overcook the egg

any fox, this fox, could be the last one

Vox Humana

by Thomas Gunn

Being without quality

I appear to you at first

as an unkempt smudge, a blur,

an indefinite haze, merely

pricking the eyes, almost

nothing. Yet you perceive me.

I have been always most close

when you had least resistance,

falling asleep, or in bars;

during the unscheduled hours,

though strangely without substance,

I hang, there and ominous.

Aha, sooner or later

you will have to name me, and,

as you name, I shall focus,

I shall become more precise.

O Master (for you command

in naming me, you prefer)!

I was, for Alexander,

the certain victory; I

was hemlock for Socrates;

and, in the dry night, Brutus

waking before Philippi

stopped me, crying out ‘Caesar!’

Or if you call me the blur

that in fact I am, you shall

yourself remain blurred, hanging

like smoke indoors. For you bring,

to what you define now, all

there is, ever, of future.