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The Bullfrog

Sometimes, when the sun is high, and somehow, in your absence,
I am missing the parade,I no longer see your face as the sky is turning gray,
and blows the willow with the rain. No matter all that is said and done,
or that which in a croak once was. The masquerade goes on:
the orchestra is blaring loud, and the creatures scatter into clusters
in the shouting of the crowd. Intangible banter from the stage
weaved together not by words, which are so many,
not by the music’s melting on, but by those sparkling, oggled eyes,
so lidless and green, bewildered and amazed. And as the tears roll down
like an alligator’s laughter, into the big wet empty of the soft clay bowl,
the lilac floods up-sprung around the mound. And as the sun went up
over the pond, so eerily quiet, gold, and calm, I saw their ears,
which could not listen, I heard their mouths, which never cease,
and I lost the words gone unremembered, slipping quickly past me
inn complicated ripples. Serious tadpoles. Reoccurring lilies.
The transmogrification of the bullfrog is complete:
She hopes onto the grassy edge, onto the ledge
of regressive dreaming. Thick is the trench with red-brown silt,
tousled in the flowers and prickly grass, the dance of pollen
in the dizzy sun, hot bugs floating into the beams.
Hear now the scream of lucid bliss, the song of the meadowlark
drone on and on: how the song of this persists.
Whoever sent the long parade missed the day of celebration:
It’s only when you’re gone, cold and gone,
no longer in my palms
that I’ve held you.
Posted 02/14/13
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