Climbing bolt eyes tightened so tight the threads
strip, and the tongue, a dirty oiled belaying bolt,
slips and slaps, and the whole edifice collapses,
as if a plumber has grabbed the head by the ears
and sucked on the nose with his plunger.
The smith smites a bass anvil,
hammering
the hot steamed milk face
forging
the steel bridge nose,
sculpting
terrible white teeth,
drawing and cooling
the pendant tongue,
punching
eyes opaque blue,
curling
thick creamy hair
around the handle of his hammer.
This hyperbolic happy acid oozing
cold blue face bowl of plum pits,
bonbon pate of goose liver.
“Don’t look at me!” cry the eye bolts expanding,
lips stressed taut, ears hung like life rings.
Far back on the tongue, a bitter spot to nap.
The old couple lives now in a window box.
The sash opens and a hand appears.
A palm with a long curved neck
pours water clear and concise.
An electrician comes to replace the eyes.
He breaks both sockets unscrewing the cold bulbs.
Memory starts to flicker, the call of a far-off bird.
In brackish blue eyes the tiller tongue feels spaces,
loosed from its mooring, and on the sail of the nose,
beating upwind for a kiss, ripples of sound,
the soupy surf ringing in his ears,
snores an old surfer paddling about
on a dinged, wax-worn, sun bleached board,
wanting to swim with you.
The Coming of the Toads 