Consider first the Alabama heat,
consider next the toad
still as a turd on this rural bridge
rupture slung across a stream
where offal floats,
where clumps are belching.
Note the toad, the reeks
that genie up beside it.
Then remember Iceland
and the freshets of its Spring.
Iceland had no toads,
no reeks to genie up beside them.
If you have any comments on this poem, Donal Mahoney would be
pleased to hear them.