Some Words (Acid, Extinction) Are Pasted to the Undersides of Others
I didn’t look at the midterm returns—
the moon’s eyelid smiling in the dawn
doesn’t mean they’re good—
but concentrated,
as the trees, darker than dark,
concentrate themselves
distinct from the dark,
on counting to myself
the buzz of walking under wires
past handwritten hours in the windows,
with my small coins, tiny cities
to give to anyone
and on counting by the coming yardful
whizzing slices of flicker
and peepers in the wetland
on campus each spring, no sooner
thinking frog
than the other two words turn it over.