Tricyclist and a Turtle

Minnesota

snapping turtles

clutched by little cities

are wet busts of moonstone

wreathed in scum,

the gray self sugared,

half a lot

of granite

phlegm stopped

upon a chaise longue,

that incoming

pod of him

dunked,

thorny hooves aswim.

Lichen licked him,

then he quivered

in the stem,

and didactic stoicism stitched

him tight with

a neat twine.

Even when

tapped on the back

by a barefoot tricyclist

with a bulging wheaten midriff,

he does not respond

except that

a flagellant

paddling worm

nested in

the necropolis

of his nape twists

in disgust

under the skin,

keeping all the grim social hate

safe

in him.