Fox

What is there left to be made new –

To be young and so glutted by bounty

That astonish is already spoken for, and beauty

Has been driven in by the chair of the tongue

Where it all sits riding the distance from

Shapeless to this like wide hips giving birth:

Words are tourists, given a world and belonging nowhere.

I wonder what is left

That hasn’t been said generations ago, only to be

Forgotten so it feels new against the palate.

Do we forget our pains, so the heartache is new each time?

Just as the first cool, honey sweet bite of melon

Is lost the moment it is tasted, so words

Leave the tongue petrified, and die –

Newness is the fox you catch on the

Outside of a glass door,

Dragging your boot by the shoelace.