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
