Frog Dream
Nightlong, frogs in the pool
croak out calamity till, wakeful,
I interpret each crooked syllable.
croak out calamity till, wakeful,
I interpret each crooked syllable.
The sound is churlish, coarse —
frog notes grating out a hoarse
chorus of slow remorse,
frog notes grating out a hoarse
chorus of slow remorse,
as I do, in half sleep,
until, drifting, I cannot keep
the dark from deepening,
until, drifting, I cannot keep
the dark from deepening,
or dream voices from becoming
peepers and grunters, churning
my madness over. The pool is lapping,
peepers and grunters, churning
my madness over. The pool is lapping,
weed-streaked, in my head.
Frogs echo from the edges of the bed,
in the grieving voices of the long dead,
grudges long hidden in their old throats,
hauntings, water horror, hates.
Somewhere, shivering, daylight waits.
hauntings, water horror, hates.
Somewhere, shivering, daylight waits.
Later, I wake, in the sanity of dawn,
and walk to the pool, glassy under the sun.
What did I dream? The frogs have all gone flown.
and walk to the pool, glassy under the sun.
What did I dream? The frogs have all gone flown.