For you distressed I carry yr clothes
hamper downstairs taste every word
prior to yr ears like mosquito
static in yr hair I sit on yr head
snatch one with my tongue
smell yr salty skin yr cheeks
freckled read as shame burr
sounds around yr funny ear fickle
bone bowls.
Still you don’t care all that mulch
for words can’t help the ear aches
worse for wear and tears fall
fill the worn clothes washer
I don’t bother separating solids
from colors under from outer
and all that rhyme
fill the tub and ounce of salt
wort scrub-a-dub-dub
rinse the soapy nest.
Pin all to these lines
in the sun of daily
breezes off the water
spinning and tumbling
little white terns fly off
as you dry off in dry
bamboo grass we learn
we two live in a slip
and fall place as you slip
a link and fall into the abyss
of this lonely ableness.
The Coming of the Toads 