why don’t I hear you any more?
This is your time of the year.
It was your custom to croak.
All through the night, the throb.
Spellbound, repetitive, too,
I was in the house, enslaved.
A frog should croak in deep water.
Your creek was dry, you were frogs,
not princes, I was never a slave.
Where are your needling, primordial
contradictions? I heard them.
Your cry carved the vast sparkling
zero, then, into triangles.
I went into your beaks.
You do not have beaks.
Far back I tasted, bitter,
the green, the prancing, emergence.
The beginning was before us.
There were no developments.
We were qualities of darkness.
I did go into your beaks.
Now I am in the air around the house,
distressed in the coil of your legend.
Later I was driven out; never again
to be sure where the house is.
Still I cling to the cedar roots,
From creek walls they sprang out
and shook with your a capella.
My pads crisp for your woodbark.
I am thirsty for the hard mud.
Now your liquid voices call again:
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