by Christos Polydorou

At night, all night,
foxes make love.
The fox calls upon its mate,
unlocks its jaws real wide.
And makes a strange,
ululating sound.

One you would not
expect from an animal.
That is neither feline nor canine,
but seems to meet mid sentence of both.
Under my window, each night, they wake me up.
What use would it be to get angry? at them?
It would make no sense.
I roll over, grunt, try to fall asleep.
I know I am less bothered at the foxes,
than the fact that.
I don’t have a mate.

For as long as I can remember
I have been leaning against a desk
drawing pictures.
In a room, all my loneliness.
All my solitary days, rolled into one.

All my nights on Skype, Tuscany, Turkey, in Spring.

As the poplars, all day, sway in the northern winds.

Pigeons? Doves?

Foxes, all night, make love.