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COPULATION
In
the pond net we use
for
skimming the scum in spring,
a
pair of frogs mating.
The
male on top while her
pregnant
belly distends
to
twice the size of them both.
For
hours stuck fast as ticks:
you
cannot see where they join,
the
seam is a plunger’s lip.
Nothing
was so mind-blowing
around
here the winter months long:
the
viscous glaze of their green;
and
her womb-cap, a pearly
yellow
with Tabasco splashes;
and
his tobacco brown back
protecting
them from
the
beaks of the air and the cats’ paws!
His
penis pumping
seed
for hours to have her
spawn
consolably impregnated
for
the diarrhoea of birth,
the
clot of eggs
shat
under a warm lily leaf!
A
joy, better than beer.
Alan
Marshfield
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