Fixed, Foxed

In the soft minds of earth,
Everything unalive,
I will write a novel
Someone could memorize.

It won't be obvious.
I don't need it to rhyme.
No epic catalogues
Or formulas: surprise

Will keep it newsworthy
Down the echoing lines
Of subtle poetry
Prose missed. What might arise

From this improbable,
Jammed fist of sound design
Would have to be more than
Characters with black eyes:

Plots as dark and fertile
As mycorrhizal time
Exposed to the plain light
Of sandstorms, hopes, and lies.