I saw two Foxes naked in the water
in the alpine lake named Dorothy.
Who knows who those two giggly Butterflies were,
blue dragonflies smooching their wet hairs, their hands,
maybe they were Dorothies?
But placid so quiet
Dorothy floated them luscious,
held their soft bare bottoms
pushing to the sky their adorable triangles
their buoyant romantic hearts
beneath those two pairs of adventurous beast breasts—
alive, flesh and soul, they palavered by a slippery drowned trunk-phallus.
Then, they disappeared;
clothes ate them.
Today, I saw the Fox-Lioness
still rag-eaten, wandering in the city;
in her wishful eyes drifted my alpine image reflected in the lake of her longings,
and there I saw the Fox-Capra, the other Dorothy:
was she also still eaten by her clothes? Where? And doing what?