Poem: Mid-Fantasy Frog

…so
at the end of
my corrective lenses sits
a light cast of thespian echoes …so
glass eggs in a drifting landscape and I
are drawn by salt in
the mirror to a nurse in
tolerant white …so
she may be our
contact.

Agents accustomed to neon and the soothsayer moon should
never speak to ⎯ Y’know, Crystal Zoom, I think I just blew this thing!