I fully intend to reply to the Fox's mellifluous barkety-barkings, but like
Stanley Fish's wife (soory, wht's her name?) who talks about urinating in
that essay in Critical Inquiry (come git me David Bircumshaw!), "not yet,
not yet..."
Did I ever say that once, like Barrett Watten, I had a family of foxes
living under my house? I dreamt of them at night, imagigining their lives
beneath my pathetic existence: doughnuts, T.V., and the Princeton
Encyclopedia of Poetry. I'd put-put aroudn my kitchen, slippered so as not
to make undue noise (this habit I abandioned after joining poetry
listserves), listening to their sexual howls, their offspring's yapping,
whille my tea was a-steeping. I can honestly say that it was the happiest
two months of my life.
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