Sleepwalking In the Woods

by Chris Crittenden

earth, that wet toad skin—
pebbles its warts,
mushrooms a peek at its bones—
he treads it
like a proboscis that can find
no blood, convinced
this host is dead,
that the shrubs around him
are a species of mold
as numb as stalagmites.
only when he sees the moon,
recognizing his own skull,
does he remember
that crickets are not undead whistles,
that the muck sopping his toes
swarms with life.
somewhere a bed waits for him,
somewhere beyond this wet asylum
of centipedes.