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.

The Backdrop

I wonder where the dragonfly goes

when the sky moves by low and gray

and things refuse to stay closed

I wonder about the green tomato

that rots before its ripens,

happily used by all the insects 

multiplying and dyeing in a new home 

full of nourishment

Such small lives

I leave them where they fall

until reduced to something

unusable even by decay

I think of you and where you go

when the sky opens and the bottom falls out

when things rot before they come to fruition

if you will live a full life

or devour quickly the one you're given

for need of sustenance

I think about myself, attempt objectivity

and decide which I am more like.

He who doesnt

Don’t you know me

I am the sound

that small fleeting sound

that echo’s in your ear

as you stretch out

in the morning,

in the moment between dreams

the one you live

and the one you sleep

I am the hands

that flutter through air

like feathers

like a hacksaw cutting through metal

call me tornado

I can not decide what I am

beautiful or horrible

but always trying

to be known, to be understood

I would rather be the breath

that passes from your lips

into another’s

giving life to love

or something like it

who am I to judge

I imagine myself

as the sound that echoes in your ear

in the instance of creation

that joy filled prideful noise

that begins as nothing,

requires you to hone it down

If I were that happy noise

I would be so pleased to belong to you

I would wrap myself first

around your arms

so that you could not forget to play me

eyelids closed and feeling all the lashes

the fine bones that surround them

cheeks and jawline

I would sweep down the curve

of your clavicle

paying careful attention

to the column of your neck

and I would rest in the hollow

above your heart

Keep me there

like a locket

and when you need to remember

that you are loved

open me up

You know me

I am the sound

of palms finding, of fingertips

and forearms, pale as a swans long neck

of bones moving under the skin

of sweat that turns to sugar on the tongue

and callouses, most beautiful accoutrement

it was you who taught me

to imagine the lives between the layers

memories, of all the strings touched

or caressed or pulled and plucked

into new life

if you’re quiet you can hear me

I am a whisper of skin

a song sung between bodies

I am a beat

bombom bombom

I am the blood

and the bone and the flesh

of something certain

You will never hear me

from someone else.