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caricatures on stalks,
slothful as the chi
of a tarantula

and laughing
like zippered snarls
from thorn-ripe throats.

a coyote wades them and feels nothing;
but human flesh
will never have such gumption.

we fear the little knives
on scrawny skeletons,
upend their clawful roots

and yet somehow
always fail to harm
these desiccated breeders.

they drip dust
like drool from wizened

they harangue
us with wind-yowls,
a zombie that prays.


Chris Crittenden writes from a struggling town fifty miles from the nearest traffic light. He blogs as Owl Who Laughs and is pretty well published.

© 2014, Chris Crittenden

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