Donald Maculey/flickr












Fox Bones

To write a poem is to study oneself.
To strip away all but the sinews,
and then the sinews.

A jawbone stuck out of the dirt—
young fox with still-perfect teeth.
I keep in on my desk.

Everything is made of mystery.
And then it all disappears.


More from Chase Twichell
“After Snow”
“Invisible Fence”
“Ochre and Blue”
“Second Innocence: With Basho at Sesshin”
“The Ghost of Eden: Zen and Poetry”

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