CITY HUNT by Gene Fowler 


			Long,  bleak

			heartscapes where i run in my

			vision, lost

			as i wake into fog  drenched

			wallscapes, run

			knotted into trudging

			hours long walk, to  walk

			away the gathered

			fires and howls -

			through windows i see the  holders

			of civilization

			arched back, thrusting

			at Diona, bent over a  board table, arms

			swimming among fluttering

			prospecti,

			the holders of  culture

			zeroing in on each

			other's reared buttocks

			while Diona escapes  -

			and beside her i run, a few

			thrusting holders even fanning  wind

			trying for my fleeing butt,

			a few spearing at this

			in me turning  to leave

			                                 figure...

			

			snarling, whining

			that i'd move up to the high desert

			get  wind burnt, rip

			off and wear the Indian's  skin

			                   or

			drift back farther in  coriolis

			                       swirls

			of  time,

			wear mammoth

			hide, rip off

			the raw boned Siberian's  sighting,

			

			                      but i  turn

			                more deeply

			the thing in me'd

			go  deeper,

			

			                   farther back,

			

			to be  again

			a molecular sentience in primal

			soup, the first hot sea, and  rebound

			

			             to fling itself  outward

			

			                          and know wholly

			

			our  galaxies

			

			                          our  constellar

			

			                                       cities.  




Copyright Gene Fowler (first published in 1978 and again in 1980 in 
Return of the Shaman)