Foxes siphon our secrets from children's ears.
     They take them home
to sweeten their nests, and their wives parade around

in the morning, making a show all over
     their stifling glades.
Secrets are best if children believe them, if they save

them for a time when their shells are too thin.
     Red and lovely, our emboldened
foxes are schemers. Though we clip their whiskers, they escape

with our secrets. No science can fathom
     their violent eyes. A satellite ray
for charming the foxes requires unthinkable government

sums. If branded, they shed our initials.
     They were willing to bargain
for more than their share. We offered our children,

secrets and all. When our velvet wore out,
     we had only science, whispering
secrets that everyone knew. If we open our hearts

and give them to church and even store
     our secrets in fox-proof jars,
we still crave something a candle will flicker for,

but also primroses and nasturtiums, some secret
     so glorified it is studied
in a night-university, a science of foxes we fathom.