In a bamboo garden in Kyoto, fox-boy slips through the canes, tail muddy. I follow him to his hole. He asks about Li. I tell him she is married now. The hole swallows him; I listen but hear nothing. Our next meeting, I say she is old and smells like whale tongue. His yellow teeth click, and he disappears. The last time, I come down the stone path to give the news that she is dead, but I can’t find him. Shadows glide through the bamboo. One yip. An answer. The moon rises slowly, carrying the burden of my sorrow.