no, thing
naught wight
if not clear
to the floor
who wears
no ears
who won’t talk
but the beer
makes void
the crooked path
down the page
to the sea
and to the critic
a still small voice
lives in a library
built of stone
nothing staged
untended
not what
can’t be
explained
in a footnote
“no symbols
where none…”
inflected
by tense
mood
a person’s
case
carried.
The Coming of the Toads 