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.