Stick Season Sunrise


Drowsy words
lifted against a predawn sky,
which is pregnant

and may at any moment break;
rivulets of cantaloupe and rasp-
berry and all shades of ripened fruit.

(The moon a photocopied ghost in
The forgotten part of the sky.)

Or the dim gray cast may latch on,
misting red and orange leaves
holding on in defiance of winter.

It may never quite get to day
But remain twilight; a dark veil,
A fogged light clung to everything.

The bullfrogs are finally still and
quiet, the ground cold and water
frigid, all life sinking to the bottom.

They will do whatever it is bullfrogs
Do to keep warm in November
Sliding into mud like fuzzy bullfrog

socks and make a pot of tea
and everything around them will get
thinner and more hollowed out.


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