Fox

Building composure makes
my eyes twitch and strain
against your old words.
Hammer-fisting carpets
made in China,
I am a wake of reds and golds.

You fell from high speeds
and were mangled.
I imagine gravel and leaves
folded into you,
cake batter.

Rows of thick shelled heads
glint alongside,
told-you-so's
miss-you's
one-last's.