by Richard Fox

Every night, I dream we are trying to dress like Dads, while
Hazel whips up a casserole & Mr B lances a carbuncle, & I can
lose myself for days reading the due date stamps on the back
page of a library book, or yacht-watching, while the shore
closes in on the water.

There is a bunting in the spear thistle, making a map from
the stars. At ten days of age, they begin looking skyward at dusk,
& marking the spilled salt that moves against the sincere void;
they migrate on cloudless nights, so while they look down,
they can consider the beyond.

Sometimes I wait on the bridge to watch the trains go by:
go gently, please—the ties that bear the rails sing. Now, bedlam
in the skies above the prairie & the flood-plain, & the autumn
you can see & feel & smell has arrived: when the moment
comes, take the last one.

Richard Fox has been a regular contributor of poetry and visual art to online and print literary journals. Swagger & Remorse, his first book of poetry, was published in 2007. He is currently working on several collections of soundscapes, which are being made available online at Bandcamp: richardfox.bandcamp.com. A poet and visual artist, he holds a BFA in Photography from Temple University, Philadelphia. A former Chicago resident, he now lives in Salt Lake City, Utah. His social media handles are — Twitter: @foxpoems and Instagram: @rfox60647.