Frog
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
blink
and are gone.