The Yawper and the Mute

Subtly or loudly
We green tree frogs
attenuate or project
our come fuck me calls
Sometimes it’s in the way
You move. Your thoughts
Like the way leaves lark
the wind and his shadows
Spiraling through tree boughs
and bony barked hands
As if all the shimmering
counter movements, recoils,
and serenades hide secrets
And formulas for making food
A sly cover for plunging roots
Stumbling around under ground
Like a drunk on a 500 year binge
pawing for water and nitrogen

Or the stars that burn so bright
The orbits that cling to them
Our mother of pearl strung beads
Arching into celestial necklaces
Fastened to captured hiding places
Torqued spheres of imagination
Brim bent iridescent captives
Bound with limitless potential

Niches determined by force
Like the gravity of breathing
And the sounds you make
when you drift away from me
Our hand clasped curious souls
crawl away from their human cages
Tucked behind cotton bed sheets
Snarling snored birdsong
calmed to whispering lagan
Your shipwrecked rage
lies sunken at the bottom
of my nacreous lipped nest

So howl and set it all aflame
Beat your chest, storm the gates
Somewhere deep within the z’s
I will be your deafly flitting finch
Silencing most all the scream
Chattering air mute on closed wings
Whispering our sleeping candlelight
into a bunting and wandering blaze






Photo: House Finch Photograph by Barbara Manis