7. Notes From the Noctarium
I
Hedgehog,
your coiffure
repels all contumely. Why then are you yourself
thus transparent-soft, mousevelvet
quivering on my coat? You rely on trust?
Come now,
surely your hairdresser could recommend also
a health studio?
II
When they cut down the plane trees in the square
the owl moved into one of our pines.
But small elegant bodgie birds come and wake him up
and josh him in blank daylight. Ah where now is the old club,
worn armchair and definite cigar
far above the traffic,
light pouring down the wet black streets?
III
The frogs still hop, awkward and if they've time,
into weed-patches, building-lots and bathrooms.
Our houses are built on gauzy traceries
of silhouetted frogs. You can scan them,
comic strips,
as they sink gradually into what we call asphalt.
The frog prince married a tractor wheel;
their fairy tale is altogether different.
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