Frog Loses Sleep Puzzling over Parallel Universes
                                           
It was not the fear of nightmares or starchy sheets
That pulled Frog from his bed into night’s exhale
Where out on the grass in front of his house,
He fixed his attention on everything skyward.

The heavens ratcheted up, click by click.
Every puncture of brightness looked to Frog
Like stickpins on the inside of a black balloon.

This idea made him think of a giant Frog
With a long silver beard.  Maybe a cane or a robe.

The space between the sky and grass
Was dark and deep.  There was no wind.
Cricket under the porch was at it again, and Toad
Fuzzy in his blanket, slept as only Toads sleep.

The sky notched again and snapped into place.
It had never looked bigger. 
Frog thought of each star as a lily pad bobbing along
In the cosmos, and he wondered if there might be more frogs
Beyond the starlight, hidden in the dark pools of sky,
Distant tadpoles deep beneath the surface of the lake.

He imagined a crazy planet of Frogs
With six legs and pointy ears.
Frogs with pouches and sideburns
Who drove around in green bumpy cars. 
Frogs with two tongues who hated water.
Frogs with wings and hairy backs. 

Frog had been reading again.
Heisenberg and Schrödinger made his head throb.
He knew electrons can be in two places concurrently,
But did that explain why
He wanted sleep and fly pudding at the same time?
Frog understands if he accepts cosmic inflation and
The holographic bound that parallel universes
Are a hop away—an identical copy of this world
Might only be 10 meters from his still-warm bed.

But that was not what kept him awake.
It was the other worlds that drew him down.
He imagined a planet where Toad was a ballet dancer,
And one where Toad brought him tea with lemon
every morning. He thought about a world
In which Toad wears silly hats and capes
And another where Toad was 27 feet tall.
He loved the one where Toad only spoke Spanish,
The universe where Toad agreed with everything Frog said.
Toad, it’s spring.  Wouldn’t you like to go for a walk?
Si, Señior Frog.  Este es un idea mas excelente.

The night sky ticks on.
Vast as it is, thinks Frog, somewhere the balloon is tied off.
With the holographic bound, matter and energy
Inside the sphere are limited to finite configurations.

This gives Frog hope that no world exists
Where Toad never goes for swims,
Or one in which Toad refuses to tell stories
When Frog is sick.  He says out loud to no one that
He does not want to live in a world
Where Toad is not his best friend.
Nothing moves, not the water, not the leaves, nothing.

The silence is broken by Badger and
Field Mouse who nod their heads toward Frog
As they shuffle off into night’s back room.
In one of the worlds, the trees or the reeds
Would respond to Frog,
But in this one, everything above is hushed.
The stars’ lids never close. 
They are as bright as they are silent.

This is what we have, says Frog.
Even if the wave function collapses,
We still have this.
Siempre, tenemos este
 y verdad el otro,
verdad el otro.
  

Waking Next to You on My 39th Birthday or The Other Arm

The bed we share is a ship.
You are the captain
                             in a big blue hat.
We sail all night
                        like crazy Odysseus
thirsty for Penelope undressed on the shore.

I am the bearded sailor
                                  who wants to take you below deck:
ropes, canvas, hooks:

The heavy sails above,
                                  the heavy waters beneath.
Your bottom arm even heavier.
Your fingers turn purple,
                                    and your hand, 
a helpless fin sinking in the darkness.                            

This bed of ours is the sea,
                                       and I am a one-armed swimmer.
You wriggle up close like a dolphin.
You slide in next to me like a fish,
                                                 a small shark, maybe. 
You are hungry, and I am trailing blood.

This bed of ours
                        is a boat,
and with my only limb, I row us to shore.
The other, fast asleep under your back,
numb in its tingly case:
Hard,
         like the bottom of a hull
or the wooden slats of a frame.

It’s always the same problem:
what to do with my other arm.

I’d like to unhook it at the shoulder,
and set it on the nightstand.
I could use it to scratch your back
                                                  or you feet,
all those places your fingers can’t reach.
With me it’s the left one,
                                    you, the right.
We know the ritual:
your am slides under my neck,
you crawl onto my chest.
and for five minutes:
                                 moss on rocks.

But then it happens,
                              the hot stings of the jellyfish
on forearm, in fingers.

We roll over into the vastness of covers, blankets,
and I am floating alone
                                    on the world’s smallest raft.

The waterbirds circle and keep circling.
I see you across the wide spread of distance.

This bed of ours is an ocean.
I could tread water until morning,
                                                 but we dive in to drown.

I want you to walk me out on the plank and push me over.

Like a severed anchor,
                                 I want to sink.