I write this with the frog that couldn’t be
seen in Hong Kong and the old man
who tried to sing along with the birds I’ve
only heard here. The warmth that comes
isn’t from too much sun in the distance,
but the waves that get up and do their jobs,
the laws of physics crashing and burning
as life does, as something roasted arrives
to smash our tongues. He’s turned me on
since 1990 and now, lying next to me
on a bird-strewn beach he does it again,
sound asleep with his tattoo on a
towel. The birds fly off like a parade
featuring Elvis. The Kowloon sand
busies the risky wind. I wrote this
hard-on for the frog. Grab the moon’s
dogs, you lecher, and tease them out of
our impossible freedom.
