East Florida

1 Minute Read Time

Photo by Jacksonville Beach Moms on Unsplash
Beneath the hazed moon, this 
hazed absence of stars,
how the hearts of the frogs
are breaking!
How they stretch and bloat
the fine elastic
of their chests, and how
their bloated hearts
are so greatly breaking!
This night of camp-tent
swelter belongs to the frogs;
the distant car rattling
slowly home and the nameless,
distant dog know
nothing of barrenness, the lone
washer chuffing through
the open door of the Laundromat
cannot muster an equal
grief, so let us pause then to give
praise for the broad nostrils
and the glottises of frogs.
Let us pause for the great
and cupidinous faith that doles
and gravels in the swell of
their thousand throats, in the gellant
swell of a thousand
bulged and gibbous jowls.
Beneath the streetlamps,
the damp porches din with
a stridulous passion;
the car lots and darkened
surf stands echo
with an unbroken desolation
and hope, so let
the vacant causeway crowd
with wheeze and jug
and whoop, the slim alleys
hoarsen and gruff.
Let us give loud and stentorian
praise for the gullets
of frogs, that their maws
may widen, their dry
lips bubble and their bellies
spread. That they may throb
and chirrup and croak unendingly,
unendingly, of strange
and taintless beauty,
make of our portion
proper melody.

Read more from Issue 16.1.

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