Toad

Broken toad on the simmering path
(as the mid-August
sun lowers itself
into crows nests).
One ebony eye on me,
the other turned
to the refuge of tarmac.
A long perfect leg
poised at the hip
for a leap
and
the other
without air,
skin loose, deflated,
beside a quiet
belly
startled into almost stillness.

Toad.
Ebony eye on me,
a tiny drop
of watery red
running from a long
balletic toe,
tattooed
and flattened
with the savage metallic tread of men.

I could lift you.

Riven frame holds my fearful palm.
In the August dust,
amphibian
skin
cools mine.

Lifted.

A few steps to
the fluid murmur of Tite Tap
and lay you down
in cool, green pastures;
as death steals
your shine
and hardens your softness.

Tears to bless you
with the
whispered words
my father said before he died:
"We are all grass".

Dear toad,
you become it.