Scavenger Hunt Poem by sare gibbs

Three young foxes spilling down the culvert.
A red shirt in the closet. Stick jammed
in the undercarriage. Steaming plates
presented by a weeping waiter. Some days
the sea is calm, others it would rip apart
the world. You always wake in another room.
It makes you want to be buried in the air
but not yet. Some things separate themselves
effortlessly from the abyss, the undifferentiated
primordial clot that owns us. Others
not. A hole remains in the argument.
The strain remains in the ballet, the stain
on the gown. When you lose something,
it's so you can learn how to search.
You will lose almost everything,
which makes for a good, long search