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The Parody of the Frog Jeffrey Encke

Once it was described as a splitting throat, this sound, and then the color of sea-worn rock. It was a subject of grave import, stretching in its green suit to fill that space, that inward infinity you would put your finger on—it hopping there in place,

its legs clapping like rhyme, counterpoint— though you were afraid you might crush it, like a flower.