In the small hours a fox calls out, how how how.
And Eleanor smiles at pink gloss
on another white menthol tip. She knows her kiss
is wasted elsewhere, is as useless
as gin and tonic fizz slowly
percolated in her bones. There is more
than one way to skin a rabbit.
Accomplished, she reads poems, considers a cento
uses words to evade perpetual storm.
At four a.m. her bronze hare, the one she bagged
mid-afternoon, moon dances
in front of a framed gargoyle. Cold
this new trophy. But oh so
© Natalia Spencer 2015