Bull Frog

Give me your wooden voice.
I want to talk through the night 
Like a sieve. We are not the closed-mouth 
Lily pads or the fishermen’s early legs.
Birds take turns asking “how” 
And “why?” Then, here you are,
Making forests in your throat. 
Twigs snap. My lover tells me 
“At night animals might come by 
Just to sniff the tent.” She is tucked 
In her sleeping bag. Our bodies are 
Warm even in the lake’s cool song.
I picture
Myself in the fur of an old spirit,
Crossing a River toward lantern light.
Your conversations are of the real life.
Of soil. Of green. Smoke. Rain.
You swallow mosquitos. Tell a joke 
To yourself. Rain picks up.
You welcome dampness. Breathe through
Skin. You ask a lover to come closer
Just as I do.