polliwog pond pop

i lay my hammock in frog spawn
rest speckled in an onslaught of fruitful goo

and if each iris baby were a sound -
(as if on cue)
a crowd of all familiar eyes
would sing back to me

as a wise old toad reflecting
through the tadpoles -
holding a jellied jam tart
some steaming hibiscus tea
croaking a synth like sentimentality

in that sloppy saucer eyed sound of water
(like spawn, pole, frog, to moss)
i bathe in a cyclical wash
and let the mesh of my hammock recess
into a cerebral sea of spawn