Brother Jordan's Fox

The fox,
crippled, walks
on his knees. Cocks

fear no danger
from his broken anger.
Rabbits linger

in his presence.
He scents
quail and pheasants

to no purpose.
He must
like all of us

acknowledge law:
the iron jaws
that took his forepaws

took his food.
His anguished blood
does him no good,

he lives by pity
and the brief rarity
of our charity.

The taste
of meat is daily spiced
with a past

he can no longer
shape to his hunger
or to that stronger

will to love.
He must live
forgiving that we give

him life. His pride
in that golden hide
of his provides

him nothing. He
knows it well, pretends we
do not see

without us he would die.
Just such a lie
smolders all our copper eyes.