Some new poems appeared on The Compass website here:

Mr. Dead Fox


Not rolled away or bundled aside under the brambles

but laid out on the road like a fox diagram,

one foot elegantly lifted en pointe. He’s a dancer


stopped mid-pirouette – poor brown fox not quick

or nimble enough to see into the future. Poor

brown fox in his shame of being suddenly dead.


What matters are the details of fox: the slim nose

pointing towards a far field where the grasses

wave and swish like water or like hair,


the long drawn-out back and also the stylish brush

like Isadora Duncan’s upheld scarf –

something absurd and beautiful to blame.


With one large ear pinned to the tarmac, he must be listening

for what happens next, which is only far-off

rumbles and roars, the odd fanfare of car radio music.


I imagine all the drivers who must have steered

carefully around the bright orange corpse,

making a short noise like a whistle or like a tut.


Katharine Towers 2019