Ever wonder why foxes always slip
into poems? Imagine the present moment
embodied, coat ablaze as it skips
littered bushes and moonlight’s lament
like the burnt shock of iron sediment
at a river’s turn, you’ll find its furtive
glare soon meets your own. Now it stops, head bent
to sniff the rutted earth scattered with
these early-hours, half-eaten chicken wings,
tears open a plastic bag that’ll outlive
us all. The future is nowhere and nothing,
the past the waste of all our take and give,
and what defines us is as radiant
as moments we thought insignificant.
