Gone to earth
Most mornings, the dog holds it in
until the tenement’s gable end.
On a mound of yellow couch grass,
rubble and heaped-up soil,
she squats to piss,
empties herself.
Holding her lead, I see
how grass curves into a tunnel
where foxes come and go, living among us
unseen, upending our bins,
trotting briskly about their business,
brushes carried high.
