The Plop of a Frog-Colored-Grief
Everything is creased & kept
In right place & order
To avoid even a particle of dust.
But all worms
Are not devised to
Die before a naphthalene.
The dead narcissus,
The spittle of wind on windowpane,
The half-empty dish of rice
Beside the folded mattress
Make me return & recall
The days of nursery school,
The lesson of my favorite farmer.
His corns would come & store themselves magically !
Flying out of ancient hearth
Gods & dogs
Gift me
The vessel of ashes.
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