Nighttime is to nectar as fable is to fox

This is how it will happen:

 

deer not knowing which way

    the river runs,

moon out like a lamp

    at the end of the hall.

 

Finches trap their gold panic

    inside a winter porch

and then you arrive, stealthy

    as the fox who winds

 

out of dead legends. Sweet-spoken

    thief, curled up like smoke

in my home and belonging

    to no one.

 

Prying down your throat

    for my name I find only 

a belly full of honey

    as well as the bees.