Look. A small frog jumps out the mouth
Of its parent. Both flip and flop are brown
and glossed on the glasstop of the frog
pond on the banks most Southernmouth.
They live breathily in the stinky bog-slur
down on the bank from whence other
two-frog-families have come. Look around.
Above the prancing primogeniture, a
little nest dangles from the elbow of a
branch; itself diverging from the main.
These are young parents, I presume. You
put your eggs in such Anorexic arms,
generally. If I move the nest with
my fingers, I might disturb, they say. It is
There are fire red ferns. Each one, alone,
grows, a lonesome stalk
among shocks of greens.
I see them as I swim — my eye
sticks on the red ones like a thumb might
get slightly stuck,
interrupted in a slow and learning
passage over loves imperfect cheek.
I think of them. Do they know how
They are different.
Out here things move in the way
Of opportunity, they say. Me, complexity.
Me, I like to get further out. See,
one day I tell a story. The next day, a story
to enclose the old days’
inside a roomier, more total one. Call it
shells, shells, and shells.
Call it lying well. Or, living in the self.
In some persons, more living-in is done.
There is no help.
I swam for an hour towards the bluest sky
I think I ever held in the globes of my own eyes
And I glanced sideways at L____ who was
Swimming off a bit.
Someone invited someone else to come
Swimming and now we are moving
Towards the Zero point. They make them
expensive called “Infinity Pools,” but here
it can be called “Infinity.” It does look like
A photograph. We are flipping easily into
it. So, the photograph of the brightest,
longest, bluest lake shall include us both
I haven’t killed her yet. I must be good.