To all those that have read my poems, I really try to cancel out the iterations of the style ABAC, rhyming and anything that did not fit too perfectly. The key is in the lock not fitting, and you will never be able to figure it out. It just doesn't fit. It really describes just one thing; it's your code to who knows what. In the end it only means so much, maybe nothing. Who am I to judge?

They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two
Moles dead in the pebbled rut,
Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart —-
Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.
One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,
Little victim unearthed by some large creature
From his orbit under the elm root.
The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:
Blind twins bitten by bad nature.

So amazingly insane in the way it projects, death and life biting on the sunken flesh. The sensory direction in this line: "From his orbit under the elm root" produces such feeling of looking up between the tree branches looking down on the elm roots, then the dead animals, the only witness is the tree.

Love to know if you have a favorite poet?

Cheers tc