Most foxheads are curs
See them: mounted,
Lining the green walls of hedgerows
Then, there was one
Walked with its orange wirebrush nose
Next to me down down the wet road
To the local shop for a 75cl whiskey
Nostrum for the oncome of evening
We were tracking but our matter
Was cold clay in our skull cups
‘A lot of people wish they were you’
I say and the concentrated apple-form eyes
Shift and glaze and almost roll at the words
The ears prick to the powerline’s hum
I’m going to write an article on
Whether too much hair clogs the brain
