Prose Poem

Toad, hog, assassin, mirror.

Some of its favorite words, which are breath.

Or handwriting: the long tail of the ‘y’ disappearing into a barn like a rodent’s, and suddenly it is winter after all.

After all what?

After the ponds dry up in mid-August and the children drop pins down each canyon and listen for an echo.

Next question, please.

What sex is it, if it has any?

It’s a male.

It’s a white male Caucasian.

No distinguishing birthmarks, the usual mole above the chin.

Last seen crossing against a light in Omaha.

Looks intelligent.

But haven’t most Americans seen this poem at least once by now?

At least once.

Then, how is the disease being . . . communicated?

As far as we can determine, it is communicated entirely by doubt.

As soon as the poets reach their mid-twenties they begin living behind hedgerows.

At the other end of the hedgerows someone attractive is laughing, either at them, or with a lover during sexual intercourse.

So it is like prom night.

Yes.

But what is the end of prom night?

The end of prom night is inside the rodent; it is the barn collapsing on a summer day.

It is inside the guts of a rodent.

Then, at least, you are permitted an unobstructed view of the plain?

Yes.

And what will be out there, then, on the plain?

A rider approaching with a tense face, who can’t see that this horse has white roses instead of eyes.

You mean . . . the whole thing all over again.

Unfortunately, yes, at least as far as we are permitted to see