the remnants of
a poem about a fox hole,
a portal to nowhere arranged with collected names and carcasses of
there are fragments of lost things –
scattered inside her with their stories
each temporary occupant collected and protected briefly,
hurrying through, and out with anything moist it finds.
recognizable bits of me are still there in the squalor
from some patient hunt.
no squatter will carry me off
marking the tunnel
like he made it;
like any poem is original;
I wasn’t there first.