Do you think that frogs
Sense the immensity of winds
Of dust blows, of a thousand flailing
Objects? Or do frogs just sit
And ponder in that frog-like way.
And when they die, do they even notice
Will I? Notice. When I die. When someone
Or someone-not is weeping beside
Or the beeping is calling forth
A calm crowd of white people
Or or nothing - the bed does nothing
To adjust to my weightlessness and I
Will lie, unware of myself
Till morning comes and spreads the word
Maybe it will reach everyone but me

Do you think, in sharp sudden halts
Of mediocre afternoons
That maybe there is no distinction
Between being and non-being, between
The sun and the hand, the fingers
Tangled in with cloth, the soil
Rushing forth in disciplined ranks
To ruffle my eyelashes.
That poetry is nothing really.
And that I am nothing.
A vessel for the universe
To drain through, into itself,
And then, and then I will become a frog
And the frog will croak, for some reason