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Craven
Craven was a frog upon my bog
slender coelacanth,
salamader in my deep recesses
I never gave him pennance due, promises, protection,
or trembly sweaty reverence
I never recognized his slimy mission
And so—great claw around my chicken neck
as time goes on
time is a pole stuck in the tide
cast iron face glaring blankly
towards the choppy surface
Floating down into the darkness
puncturing the tissue, fearing oblivion
no wonder his glistening toes
were UFOs—surprising blows,
always
my pencil jerks the words
straight away from me
and if they don’t belong
they don’t belong to Craven
and if I do not belong
then what is I?
it is not Craven
Craven sleeps between my toes
up my nose—in my ear,
outside my fear
when a storm comes calling
he simply hides
he has no problem
he has no pride