This year, resolve to be more like the sloth:
that slow, slinking, blinking bag of fur
whose claws and eye makeup are pure goth.
They hug each firm bough as if it were
a home, held beyond the hurry of our kind,
or doggy-paddle off the sapphire coast
to no end but endless time. Good as blind
to the day’s harsh glare, knowing almost
everywhere by mind map, feel, and sniff alone.
You might commit hours to climb and climb
this swaying cecropia, reaching a crown
of leaves to munch, then, eccentric mime,
mistake your own arm for a branch to dive
fifty feet unhurt. Wouldn’t that be the life.
Ben Wilkinson’s latest collection of poetry is “Same Difference” (Seren Books)
[See also: The NS Poem: Weirdos]
This article appears in the 24 Jan 2024 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory Media Wars