Chris Crittenden
The Ice in My Head

has no tang of care,
no mixture of maybe
or what or i should
or shouldn’t.

it has no discernable
face, no garden
like furrows of brain lobes—
no innocence as excuse,
no typhoon or quake

to blame for writing nix,
not even a semicolon
in the bowels of crumpled

it has no posture
like jesus hanging
or mickey mouse perked—
no epitheliums or spatter clues
for CSI blondes.

it wanders
in a figure eight
whose hips invoke
a moebius dance.
it doesn’t care about pathos, sex
or money.

it isn’t human anymore,
just a patch of sky
on a wintry day
when nothing is falling
and ice just floats
like fizzy light
in ginny clouds.