The squatting birth position of a woman, small centuries

raging full. Fertility, wealth, transformation, moon

energy: all dead. The hellions at Johnson Elementary

thumbing frogs against the brick, guts squishing in spirals

of expressionism. No war no war no war no war no war.

The sky wants nothing to do with it. Maybe refuse to be

a vessel for cruelty? We need to make more room

for buttercups. Moving the furniture around could help

circulate the light within. Whatever the hell happens,

I am the frog. That’s what I like about it, Steve.