About  my dark nights,  gray afternoons
And  my crows not yet arrived on the fringe,
The book is indeed fat , redolent with sound
And creaks at seams, like a rusty door hinge.
Its pages are doors sidestepping to a backyard
Filled with trees that look down into the well
For their shadows eaten up at its bottom.

Shadows fell there  by accident, not design.
The water is neutral, in its mossy brick steps
Shadowy , moss-green and gray towards dusk
But generally unresponsive to frogs jumping
From  crevices where lay entire frog colonies
Deeply brooding in their own crevice shadows.

It looks like the book is not about dark nights
Nor about crows not yet arrived nor shadows
Recumbent at the bottom where the pail fails
To reach, touch and shiver  waters in ripples. 
It is not even about frogs libidinously waiting
To be written about, stroked on  slimy backs.
As the book is written it is mostly about itself.