by Jean-Mark Sens
The fact, its croaking didn’t wake you up.
A frog sitting on the top of the bed post
green emerald and gold dots matching its eye color
a lean, enigmatic body of an athlete and the stranger fact,
it held a cigarette in its mouth–
no smoke and it could not talk
though if you came with a question, any question
for that matter you knew it had the answer
yet, breezy, casually ironic,
a visitor getting ready for the evening.
It lingered at the foot of the bed
adjusting its tie, stretching its toes in its tight wet suit.
Dream interpretations could well explain it,
a bookish repertoire—genitals, prince charming
virginity teased to be lost, a leap of faith between past and future
and the cigarette expectedly phallic—
no dream that could end back in silence.
A dream floating and opening like a lake clearing and letting see the bottom of itself
what waters can no longer hide in the folds of their waves
a continual work of energy in synapsis
the dendrites in a forest
exchanges of ions like a sluice gate from water to water
depth of our brains brought to our lips
Atlantis of the soul, Terra Magnus
we trek and return—dim memories we own and can’t fathom,
tadpoles appearing, disappearing to the tale tails of their flagella.