In high degree heat one seeks
the short vowel, the cool rest
not beat range high voltage –
slip as the diphthong under
the cloud of unfastened nude
words none want to look up.
The soft letter smooth friction-
less, effortless, moves along
as the tired tortoise herself
settles on some plan of action
in the sand next to the water,
and all in moon fore hot sun.
Soft the tortoise within her
sinless resistance, backward
hard her glance of solitude,
of round crepuscular walk
back to where her eggs live
under her round wet patterns.
The Coming of the Toads 