:::

 

Eleven frogs sleep here at the bottom of the pond

the joyful mud sings the songs 

of the eels in a symphony of scissors

do you stir the birds when the smoke comes near

your pole is made to gather the threads

in your distress you are carefree with joy

crying into the haystack of your next resistance

the light slowly returns

to the leaves you breathe out of your throat

the skin speaks to the self of the temple tree

here you stand in the ashes of lies

a thousand angels suck the bomb back

into its mushroom cloud.