Roethke’s
Poetry Exercise
The eye, hot to bruise
itself;
a throat to ruin the
cool, soft burn.
A wavering slag to curve
red leather
and too sharp to cut a
rock.
Blue kiss to mourn
belief
of the surprised frog
and on its cloud
a tough bite to cut mud
for its once important merriment.
Sing and say, no dog
should know
to swing the moon and
rightfully lay.
Blush, done, over,
anon.
No longer is its
revelry.
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