The day is sun-sodden, held in a clench of heat,
a sump of air. Oak canopies flicker,
high overhead. A summer broth. A perfume
of green. If I'm there I'm crouching pondside,
brushing my arms of mosquitoes
and fingering the loam.
The bullfrog keeps its silence. It feels, I think,
the sky's blue-green weight.
I think we both do, the two of us, squatting there, struck dumb
by a sense of a day piled high, too high, sun-flooded,
pressing us to the earth. The bullfrog
shrinks into its puddle, two eyes in the scum,
nothing more, and across those eyes
the whole world bends, wired to a morsel
of fleshy mind, a speck of thought, a little soul-crumb.
I rise, long-nailed and lonesome,
like a soldier watching for any distant shape of Rome.
-- David Troupes
Current Residence: Tucson, AZ
deviantWEAR sizing preference: Small
Favourite genre of music: Anything that sounds good
Favourite photographer: Robert Frank, Robert Doisneau, Sally Mann, Francesca Woodman, Jen Gotch
Favourite style of art: All
Operating System: Brain
MP3 player of choice: iPod Nano 3G
Wallpaper of choice: Paint
Skin of choice: Mine
Personal Quote: Talk nerdy to me, baby!