Issue 12, Spring 1956
In Montmartre, far from the sea he loved, crippled
by arthritis, Corbière nailed up over his chimney
the dried carcass of a toad.
As I sat there looking at my toad
dry on the wall,
Tailless, hopping, dead insect-eater.
Breeding in water with a warty skin,
I heard singing through armored cities
the toady flatterer.