Fox
I found the fox
in a boxed grave of field –
a bale of dandelions, wheatgrass,
wild poppy and thistle.
If it were possible for the sky
to be scythed and squared
into a cut of night
the way a field could be baled,
I’d be buried this way
in a grave of stars.
This poem was originally published in Artist Profile, Issue 60, 2022.
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