For days on end we go without
disavow our yielding yellows
surrender calls our voices
You knew what was coming
The abyss, an abyss anyway
I often want to share mine
with you but then I forget
your name your hands
Every morning now I finish
flex the memory stretch
credulity as they say no
more evidence than an empty
basement the attic too
the whole house spotless
not a speckle or a flake
of what used to take place
the romp stomp jerkings
the peaceful long sleeps
no need to hark but now
lend an ear or a hand.
The Coming of the Toads 