the city has no arms.
he squeezes the back
of his neck and feels a python.
no legs. success
means to crawl.
wings lurk above,
embellishing towers.
thoughts can’t move.
motion isn’t contact.
everyone has their own terrarium,
hiding a few scary eggs.
he masturbates
and it feels like squeezing a reptile,
cold and unresponsive,
lack of breath–
an attempt to kill something,
some vengeful clue
hibernating
in the constrictive gloom.
the night pumps delirium,
a saturnalia of lies.
hope without ethos
or grace.
one primate stands up,
sobbing suddenly
in the rain.
Chris Crittenden does much of his writing in a spruce forest, fifty miles from the nearest traffic light. He teaches environmental ethics for the University of Maine, and embraces a personalized ethos of ecofeminist shamanism. His recent interview on Jane Crown Poetry Radio is available at the site. He blogs as Owl Who Laughs.
Photo by neueweide.
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