when Ginsberg pronounced that what Bashō heard
was “Kerplunk!—”
he meant the frog hopped like a reckless egg
hit the water like a cot dropped off a bridge
he wasn’t perplexed, but Hass was—
had the frog simply make “a frog sound.” love
aquatic, does not yet know it exists—
it does only in the air—
tercets of frogs
the good unsexy one, the sexy young one, the heartbreaker
sunbathing by flowering lilies—
i scattered wildflower seed, early enough
for the Spokane freeze to watercapture in the lot but
it wasn’t enough. i had to run, to lift, to leap, plop
arrive—kerplunk—a man
translated
frog meets otter
who chirps: ride on my belly
and keep an eye on my stone—
Will Shoup is a Spokane writer who grew up in the country in Kansas. On that property, 13 acres his parents named Mole’s Elbow, Will’s father dug a pond, which became home to thousands of bullfrogs.