Take a walk in the hill’s beard of seeding grasses.
Insects rise up with an electric buzz like the cry
of an apartment call-button. I am not at home
in this body. Further down, near the lake,
bullfrogs twang their low strings. Raise my foot
over an inch of warm water and tadpoles
dash around so frantically I’m splashed. It’s crazy
out here. I cannot convey the action: life painted
on so thick the brushstrokes show. I wish
I could show you my way of seeing but as soon
as I get it down the moment’s past and I have become
a different person, the way unnamed dead become
the bright field. My eyes may seem like apertures, but
they’re beetles on which crawl tiny specks of light.