');pd.close();}else{if(!omw)pWin[wp].location.href=imgs[0];}if((acT&&acT>0)||(slT&&slT>0&&isSL)){if(pWin[wp].document.body)pWin[wp].document.body.onunload=function(){if(acH)window.clearInterval(acH);if(slH)window.clearInterval(slH);}}if(acT&&acT>0)acH=window.setTimeout("pWin["+wp+"].close()",acT*1000);if(pu&&pu!=""){pWin[wp].blur();window.focus();}else pWin[wp].focus();document.MM_returnValue=(il&&il!="")?false:true; }
The 2River View 15.4 (Summer 2011)

Chris Crittenden

Crow In A Gale

of disheveled tufts
on a catapult
about to throw,

the projectile
quilled yet frozen,
cinched by wind,

a talon
from hurtling
through a sky of cement
and oatmeal.

hood ornament
of a streamlined grove,

pitted against
a sharpened speed
of drooling gray.

a plight nearly fumes.
almost a serif

Ghost Trance

fire ants lick
but he won't burn, not after
decaying off day by year.

he's a scaffold
where issues were hung
and the executioner
forgot to take them down.

dew for a weep,
a clutch of nettle for skin.
once a puff adder
became an arm, another time
a heron.

he judges all
from his bench of finished life,
sparing only
an ichneumon's wing.

green and rot
kiss like horny teens
while he ages with the swamp—

of skull-backed moths
and smitten loons.

Chris Crittenden writes in a Maine spruce forest, fifty miles from the nearest traffic light. He is widely published, and blogs as Owl Who Laughs. contact