Round ears curl silver coils of sounds,
across nose stands glass bridge in worm-fog,
always under construction.
Every sense a degree, and digression, and distraction.
This is technology:
rubber sneakers, cotton threads,
titanium screw implants capped
with fool’s gold.
Then that hardened heart
lumbering loose without nails
full of sloth a snail’s shake
ebbs & flows fickling & flicking
comes & goes riding the tides
like a pickle on smooth ocean
swells rising then falling
oily muscle lifting and dropping
off to sleep, surly salty
heart pickled in hope chest,
just like a human heart.
The Coming of the Toads 