The bed has decided to become a pretty picture,
and now the picture-frame has become politicized.
Some sort of squirrel or other burrower,
raccoon hedge-hog mole

is trying to eat its way in through the corner
(bottom left)
while the frog has hopped in, with his
kingly hop

to look at the fairies floating in
their party gowns of mosquito
sleeve (the fairies kill mosquitos and
dress in knits of red-hot innards

that the frog looks up at, dreamily;
if only he remembered how
to open mouth)
Eric is in the frog; waiting

for the sparkles and the show,
the rippling gossamers,
the almost incandescent organ-meats,
to realize they’re Dead and rain sad fruits