Listen to Barry Goldensohn reading this poem. On a dirt road, a paper-thin dry thing like a black parchment cut-out of a toad in mid-leap, partly sideways, drawn by a master, now boneless, as if it never had bones. Only the tough skin survived the flattening by one of the rare cars here. Poor unwary thing. How much of us will last, tough, stiff, cured by summer sun. Our better towels outlast our flesh. Are Nazi lampshades holding up? Shrunken heads? Mummies? Count on bones. Stone monuments. A few poems.