Fredrick Zydek


Fat as a Buddha’s belly,

a single frog

with skin like moss

caught in the thoughtwash

of music plucked

before the blush is off

the vine is ominous

and gothic in the dazed

and coming sun.

His blumped and bulging

voice, so like the dignity

of velvet, sings thick

as a myth. He’s a dazzle

of green dressed

in tweed, an elf-like

lizard with perfect

fingers and toes.

His eyes hold the tunes

of Isaiah, his lips

the darting gift of tongues.

His is the curse of Moses,

the swamp’s gnarled drum.

Sweet pale moths


and are gone.