the glass fox is shaped entirely of refusal to be seen. it is the colour of nothing in particular. you find it only when the air is full enough of dust — flour, ash, the late afternoon — to settle along the line of its back.
it lives in unused rooms. in attics where the sun comes through one window. it walks across the floor as if the floor were a rumour being told. it has been seen drinking from a thimble of milk left by no one.
the surest way to lose it is to clean the room. the surest way to find it is to forget to. it is patient, and prefers solitude, and is most often heard breathing once you have stopped trying.
— left out a saucer for three weeks. the milk went, slowly, a small amount each day. — c.r., the upper landing.