Mud

I've always wanted to wrestle an angel.
That Tyrannosaurus angel, the one who threw
Jacob's hip out of joint in Genesis.
I want to wrestle with that angel in .

that's wet, primeval, slime-slippery slick.
Slick as the moss on a rainforest redwood.
Slick as a wet log bridge suspended over a raging stream.
Slick as those stones in the same stream in summer,

the stones that capsize you into cold water,
the water you would have preferred
to have submerged into slowly,
inch by inch, stopping at the waist,

like a cautious explorer in crocodile country.
A wild, muggy country of butterflies and panthers
with no doctors or lawyers or wireless connections
for a hundred-thousand square miles.

A country much closer to the moon than ours
where ear-splitting monkeys howl,
frightening you from sleep
only to find, beside your hammock,

that dinosaur angel,
scale chested, arms crossed,
solar flares flaming from his eyes,
muttering, "Want to wrestle?"