When selfishly young
swimming up the waiting
tree the melons hung out
short tongue patient
and the bird pauses
in flight the voice unhooked.
Tongues burned for fun
and born with a bit of wit
at last fall off
into the bottomless pit
where the seafarer goes
to taste the fleshy fruit
and with a lick of luck
lives on but never
tells the tale.
We lived across a dusty tracks
(to make a quick cliche of this)
with the others who solely minded
their own one on one business
looking the other way
and waiting the proper time
to mow the ready hay
and bale for the coming fall.
Now older and just aging
a bit here and there
watered down and humbled
in a room in Opportune Pass
it’s all I can do
to bite my own inflamed
tongue when the urge comes
to untie me undone
turning and turning
on the moontide spit.
The Coming of the Toads 