Mornings stolen cold dirty socks on damp
feet slushed street Bathsheba and the kids
sleep past the cryptic graffiti on the corner
phone booth an annunciation to be glad
to rejoice as we once recess Angelus rings
asked joy in backyard bestowed with sun.
Between no yes we stopped and I touched
the fruit of your wamb womb cherry bomb
compassionately swallowed your freckled
cheeks whole like the great horned owl
absorbs the snouty mouse grace flavored
rain blurred eyes wiper smeared drive.
Byssus threaded hand in hand hip to hip
we survived ice storms attached to rocks
blessed grace full I kissed your salt but
now thin and weak bland unpalatable
the beach is closed to surfers who pray
for waves gone by sucked into sand.
Our songs drift into space beyond sound
what cannot be seen or measured is love
yeah we rocked and rolled and jazzed it
up but in the end we are just a folk duo
doomed to sing our same old love song
oldie of oldies on infinite scratched repeat.
Soma of couple submerged together sing
a sleeping song awake these hundreds
of years adoring each breast to breast
and now my heart before need of repair
asks to roll up what sweetness remains
into one last rollicking bollocking ball.
The Coming of the Toads 