The Bull Frog

When the air thickens
and the house becomes a cage
I press my ear to the window
and listen to the bull frogs
breathe

they use without taking
a necessary symbiosis
which leaves the Earth
naturally sighing
in relief
as the tadpole wriggles free

while many creatures
devour the multitudes
of future frogs
and for a time
reap the benefits too

they do not begrudge me
my grand conscious life
oil stain left where skin pressed
fervently against the glass
attempting to experience something
relevant

I reverse evolutionary roles
and wonder, frantically
with a hope that enfolds me
in loneliness

if they see me
with my eyes hungering
across darkness
hands hovering on spots
I never find with the sun

metal fence twined with vines
of sticky fragrant flowers
overgrown grass
moving across palms
as if consciously imitating
all those small things
that inhabit it

oh but I do envy the small things
their swamp
their simplicity
acceptance as an obligation
an instinctual staple

nothing to bear out
between the teeth
the burden of every mood
lying with someone else

nothing yours to keep
but useful anatomy.