Clover Out of Mud

Something comes to mind; It is no evil thing. Objectified it stands, Sings loudly with open mouth, Nearly speechless. So is the volume turned up, Turned on When frogs croak In muddy ponds And tadpoles wink the day. The field is all clover-- Pure; It feeds the sky, Pleases the eye, Is false Like some lovers. Frogs are lovers, Hopping. People hop too-- Skip, jump, dance Nightly by the moon, Restless as sin. Then they croak. Where do they go? They inhabit the hollows; Their breath is fire. Personification is no Evil thing-- A gift, perhaps. Out of the mud come frogs In their season. People inhabit the mud As well-- Splattered and spotted Like freckles They come. Random is the field of clover Growing, Eating the mud, Feasting like vultures. The body lies down in clover; It is covered, It is decked out in glory The glory of clover, All fresh. Out of the mud comes a phantom. He drips with slime. He carries his pride Like a tomahawk. He is clean shaven. There is no regret. Wanting peace he comes, And she the wolf-hound Is waiting.