Spinning Fox on the Memory

There are two foxes out on the black swamps edge,
they are red, narrow, like devils up and above the gloom.
They react to our movements,
Us nothing more then patterns
in the sea of vibrations or reverberations,
across the green backyard.
Still, it's a lovely memory.

I imagine memory and time
spinning wildly. A vortex beneath melted fire
with the walls, images, fusing
into one another
a hybrid portrait.

Another memory,
snow in the night,
harsh flakes icy edged across the orange streetlight.
The flow of white stops in moments and stills,
only to be thrown down again lazily
a living pattern.
I don't know what it means.
Could it have a similarity?
To the gasping vents in the abyssal deep
where the last of our monsters roll and bend,
only to be seen in fragments,
of some wild mans camera lenses.

Another memory the air conditioner on humming peacefully.
The bay Key Largo blue and tranquil,
with clear water like sky piled upon itself and folded in half,
with the islands the symmetry horizon.
Metal steel plays lazily against the quivering shore,
children are laughing, a boat rolls and thunders.
She is there, on the edge of the couch
she looks like she could never leave,
And in memory we shouldn't,
reality intrudes.

If it could be a beast
memory would be a hybrid fiend,
not a monster built from some hideous environment
of old toys and rusty machines,
in some distant apocalypse.
The more and more it ages
like a good wine,
the sweeter it gets,
like pure edged fantasy.