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"That he feels that the past lives in him, and that it stirs him, doesn’t mean that the past actually exists inside him. The past, too, is a narrow valley, one refusing occupation."

"...let a vague pity blur the formal roses."

--Judith Wright

Rückkopplung #21.

"The Fox’s Lover

The howling air blows snow into your footprints,
four-toed, leading from my door.
Everything you touched tonight is cold again.

Every time, I plan to be prepared.
Night to day; the sleeping side
of a cycle; no great pain. Every time,
I'm screaming along with the wind.
We do not know where you are,
the wind and I,
nor when you will return.

I set out, each morning, for you.
Trinkets to attract your playful spirit:
acorns carved into dice, hare-skulls,
glass like ice dyed sunset-color,
broken traps. For the animal
who cannot be caught unless it wills it.

White fox, I would hold you to me,
weigh us down and let the snow-mountain cover us.
Let the wide-footed bears pad overtop,
crushing snow into static blue ice.

In the dark, if I am careful -
if I set the trinkets just so,
if I do not light a candle
or open my eyes -,
your weight is like a man's.
Your skin, silky and shivering,
a woman's. You are no dumb beast
when your tongue rakes winter lightning
across me, nor when you hold me after,
warm against the air.

Later, I rise -
the nights are long here - and tend
the fire back to wakefulness.
I offer you the dark morning's
eggs, the salt fish.

You have padded to my feet,
you and your shock of white fur,
all dog again. In this form,
something blue-white shines
under your fur, like a snowbound sky.
I ruffle your ears, as if touching you
so lightly could pull that heart
and that light into my hand.

You tell me, with that rough and pointed
tongue: I am beautiful.
I am clever, to have captured a fox.
Watching that light in you,
I almost believe it: I am warm,
safe here with one who loves me;
this snow banked cottage is a circle
of enchanted grace. Everything white
and shining.

Will you stay? No.
Never.

Howling with the wind, I fall backwards
into powdered white. Watch the uncaring sky,
its green and rosy flickering lines,
until all tears have frozen
and my eyes close.

I am safe here in my fur-lined coat,
warm enough to sleep out the cold.
Scarf piling wool on my face,
I breathe warmly and deeply.
I dream:

My heart is scrubbed with blue-white frost,
glowing and clean. You did not bring it here.
You led me, mirrorlike, in fox-print circles
back to the soul that already
looked like yours.
I am beautiful, clever,
warm and safe and loved in this white world,
whether or not it is said
by a trickster's shining tongue.

There is no need to wait in the weeping wind.

In the morning, I set out your trinkets again."

--Ada Hoffmann

"In short: it was pretty much like watching a roving pack of sneevy, concave Harvard MBA’s in blue blazers go to the poorest public schools in town, slap kids around and take their shoes."