Occult Motion and Still Photography

Pooling blood collects inside
The corpse, haunted with life.
The flesh-ghost of Fox
Does not part with the blood crimson.

My careful thumb grazes the torn meat,
Crisp dead fur.
I bring my finger towards my eye, closer,
With occult longing for new motion.
Examine the stain of sin, curiosity.

Do you think of resurrection,
Imagine Dead Things, once again scampering?
Think of re-sculpting the idea-carcass
Of a face locked inside of memory?

Life is a pumping, beating thing.
Heart beating; the compression-box body
Of concentrated motion,
Calls out for examination, severing.

Do you look at the mirror of the torn apart Fox?
Watch the stilled prey
With reverence for the fierce dimension
Still hunting.

I contemplate alchemy
Between street-corner drags from a damp cigarette,
the length of it declining, burning.

You can follow the feet-scurry
Of frantic motion on sidewalks,
And wonder about still photography.