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.