The scant, gray room
Where you caged me;
Me, a fox with
Silken, amber fur
And hungry teeth.
I dreamed of escaping you
That cool, spring morning
At our Swiss train station
Your heels striking echoes
And I afraid of the machinery.
“Why do we do
The things we do?” you asked.
I kissed your nose,
Like tasting a hen.
I gave my ticket to a boy,
Watched him board without bags.
My gloves pinched my skin—
Black, like your hair,
And smelling of blood.
— © Rick Baldwin
