All endings come with a surprise.
The limit is not found but must be allowed
until a fresh coat of snow is available.
For sunlight to equal destruction…
For tomorrow’s children
always wake up to the sounds
of breakfast being prepared.
Their beds and books will always
be fond of dreams.
All their eyes can see is
the old men waiting,
clean and clear as bull’s horn—
as if the pale sun shivers
and the ships of time return
and all those Theban guests depart.
The word, the frogs, the pond, the neither/nor—
‘Neither’ left the fox too much to see,
‘Nor’ for long—not with all them frogs legs for…
At dusk, as the cathedral frogs sing songs
of unprincipled certainty, the fox
will circle the pond in search of what belongs
to every fox no matter how unorthodox.
It couldn’t matter less. Your theoretical
frog is not just a cliché—softened by
the fox’s growl—it is an inestimable
blunder. Why, if their song could even try
to rival a great graveyard in honest terror,
it would be as if all creation waited for
a mot juste from a bare nosed but blessed warrior:
the word, the frogs, the pond, the neither/nor—
‘Neither’ left the fox too much “to see,
‘nor’ for long—not with all them frogs legs for free