Sunday, December 2, 2012

Two Poems from Chris Crittenden

Glade Alone

lost snowflakes
walk a graveyard
of marbled spruce.

this kind of death,
unmarked and pure,
never reaches the metros.

when solitude
is your mortician
something has gone right.

when your priest is frost,
and only the moon


white sky electric,
a blank silence
starved of wind,
on hold,

suddenly spurred
by skeletons of sparks:
nude maples
shedding last yellow.

a faithful trust,
not known to waver,
buckles from the onslaught
of the approach--

scratches that flash
in jagged dark,
tormenting towers
and tender rooftops,

until mice of fear
in the underbelly of doubt
ricochet to swell
and plunder.

Chris Crittenden writes from a spruce forest, fifty miles from the nearest traffic light.  His full-length collection, Jugularity, was recently released from Stonesthrow.

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