They slip in and out-
the words we use
baked in a confection that cloys
ah-
how we understand
and misconstrue-
the life of a frog.
He leaps past shadows
worn grimly-
the cloak of atrazine worn on
our grandmothers’ scars
leading to malformation
and death.
Unending, yes eternal
this passage into darkness
avoiding resonance and swaying
from side to side.
Broken sentences are glued
together by time.
Of him-the tadpole born
skips through roughen hands.
Begotten from the arc which distorts him-
this civilization born to
recklessness
ends with the metronome-
beats back survival
tick tock tick tock-
nothing means anything
and all the rest is wash.
1/17/2017
Anne's mediocre poetry 