Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Two

Katie Hartsock

Leaving the Forest

Throw a frog in boiling water, it will leap out. But boil the water a frog sits in? She has been with him so long. Underground sprinklers popped up like periscopes to the sound of our steps in moonlit grass. The water wanted us then in its circumference of spray— our girlish peals, our pale calves. We could not take that walk today; the ground would only be ground. What separates us from animals: we can measure the passing of time, but not all of us can call bluffs.