|Jul/Aug 2018 Poetry|
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
Frogs in the Basement
The water in disarray, yet you pack that basket filled with wind through waves of light, the wind's salt left in your hair. As though that sparrow could merge its ghost's transparency with some feathered image and fly away. Its blood as satin as our blood, burn marked, rain raw. The words we've kidnapped thundering in the basement, stroll through every consequence as autumn drains away. Are those tentacles in your teeth, a taste of brine, lips in motion? We've taken reality apart, spit in the eye and put it back together again, a nose here, an eyelash in the leaves, tongue, leftovers dropped in a pouch. So what if the future is approaching, outbound and crowded, standing room only—well then, we'll stand.