Distil Later

[Allen Bramhall]

llusive parts of the last sentence, calls frog music into play. Frog 
music tones down into night, you might as well swim the dark. The dark 
isn't tune itself but a membrane left behind. Your words are given. How 
much more the words could entail just by being frog? Let the frog go. As 
the frog goes, you listen, it splashes. It marks situation on the map. 
It is not hungry but timed. You are timed. I am timed. This table is red 
now, timed. The illusive part of the next sentence won't matter without 
frogs. Frogs play with us. Their chair is a refrigerator tuned to 
staying. Their refrigerator is a stair tuned to chaining. The cat offers 
nothing yet, simple awaits by an empty bowl. An average works out to 
extension, as in the wide night or the bones of breakfast. When we hear 
that a poem exists, someone in the dark perhaps, we are alert. We remain 
so until the poem falls apart. Gravity of poem, in its frog voice, stays 
with us. We look at gravity as a thing. The thing somehow remains, as it 
disappears, not beaten, not exactly proven.