He takes wine as a child takes milk
and makes a red fox run under the moon.

A few things that comfort—cloves,
cinnamon, ginger. Soft fruits

and the plain speech of a tiger’s purr.
He has come, like a donkey or a mule,

to this garden believing in fury
to calm and simplify the slaughter

with fatty marrow and gristle.
There is a life that outlives this one

but no scythe to chop the thickets, yet.
Make no mistake: he can cover distance

on the trail of a new scent
but labor and laws are blurred

with strange appetites.