SIX AND HUSH

Listen to they way you fall, and you crash

with a little bit of something and a million lies. 

You’ve told the same story of a frog and some mud

to the swamp that would listen as you wallowed in the dark. 

Imagine this face, with bug eyes and webbed hands, 

a semi-soothing sleep in the dark of the South. 

There’s hanging moss and misplace modifiers

and the home you used to call comfortable. 

Oh Biology and some never-free lunch.

It’s a backyard of past lives, 

the frog and the toad — well wishes.