“can we ever really 
know death?"
a fox inquired to a rabbit
before he took it in his
mouth, teeth bared
ease like tenterhooks 
through linen cloth
rabbit fur frosting over
like snow and ice
loss tinted with rose red
spiderwebs covered on hyacinth
with the screech from night-sky
raven wings an answer
echoes between
the trees in the form
of hushed winds
and then


silence