inside out

Fish bloom in the fields where
all the grass has been exchanged for candy wrappers.
Throngs of mythical felines contemplate
the other side of the horizon, hesitating
to eat the eyes of passersby. Towerlets
of Babel and windows of the heels become
irrelevant questions to prairie dog holes
and cow pies. The song of a mute Stygian frog
(they insist that no one has come back yet
and told us what color it really is)
makes a good birthday present in times of whoa,
remains a rarity for twisted centuries
and mutilated Olympian ears.