I. L. Salomon

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I. L. Salomon

The Fox

Incursive on the frozen snow, Wary blaze in vulpine eyes, Islanded in solitude, The fox in moonlight on the rise Kept his stance as I my own, Chaos in him as in me, Shut in the inviolate Aorta, stinging icily. Malice in him; yet he knew I too with infected will Had set my trap, a stratagem As secretive as his own skill; The semblance of his evil, mine; Mine as his; when in the numb Absolute of silence, he Disappeared as he had come.

I. L. Salomon

The Quarrel

The little hates between them had begun And so when she ran up the pasture slope To get away from him, he let her run, A wet wind at her back. She took some rope To scare him if she could, which she could not. He watched the moon mark an imprudent path Beyond the cropped grass to the sugar lot. His mind was on his chores and on her wrath. The milk-train's whistle hooted like a horn Soured by time. He heard a shuddering freight Heave its asthmatic thunder through the corn; In the wet mist the cows lowed at the gate, And off he went for chores. When he returned, He found her fixing breakfast unconcerned.

Ballad for a Coal-Black Tom

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