Field Towards Road--Chris Crittenden

clutches of grass

crack in droves.
jackstraw game
of phalange and snare.
deer tracks
in the half-hard mud.
clouds phlegmish
in a cold larynx of blue.


i have thinsulate soles,
hands of nylon,
and a neck of sheep hair.
neanderthals and scientists
embrace over my skin.
no saber tooths
or wooly rhinos,

only trash near,
scurrying with the jiggle
of a retinue. and cars
herding at dawn
without zeal.


whoever’s behind the windshields
i can’t say.
they exist only
as the victims of gadgets
they are.