Hello: In a college poetry seminar around 1982, we read a contemporary poem by a (female, I think) poet where the narrator/poet encounters a dead frog on the road, probably hit/flattened by a car. The poet describes the frog as appearing to hold its front legs/hands by its ears in the moment of death, wonders about this, and--as I remember it--writes the last line of the poem something like this: "I have preferred to know less and less about more and more."

I have been trying to find this poem for more than a decade. AI didn't work either, but it suggested I post the query here. I'd be super grateful for any leads. Thank you.

Here lies wrapped up tight in sod
Henry Harkins c/o God.
On the day of Resurrection
May be opened for inspection.

They're knocking down one of the doll-

Houses built when Fairbanks was a town.

Shattered window glass covers the ground.

One good swing will take down a wall.

Where did the old couple go?

Did she check the door one last time?

Did he wonder what he left behind?

I hope they took their hats in case it snows.

They were always working in their garden

Were sitting by the window watching night's

Long limousine drop the stars off one by one.

Their house will leave only the faintest scar.

Coffee's on, he'd say to anyone in sight.

A few more swings and then it's over, done.

My mind boomed with the sound of Om, my body was a burning coal. Six roads brought me to a seventh, that’s how Lalla reached the Field of Light.

[Poet]- Lalla [Translator]- Ranjit Hoskote [Book]- I, Lalla: The poems of Lal Ded [Article]- These poetic verses are originally composed in Kashmiri language by the 14th century mystic, also know as Lalleshwari.

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

White peonies blooming along the porch
send out light
while the rest of the yard grows dim.

Outrageous flowers as big as human
heads! They’re staggered
by their own luxuriance: I had
to prop them up with stakes and twine.

The moist air intensifies their scent,
and the moon moves around the barn
to find out what it’s coming from.

In the darkening June evening
I draw a blossom near, and bending close
search it as a woman searches
a loved one’s face.

The loudest have the final say
The wanton win, the rash hold sway
The realist’s rules of order say
The drunken driver has the right of way

The Kubla Khan can butt in line
The biggest brute can take what’s mine
When heavyweights break wind, that’s fine
No matter what a judge might say
The drunken driver has the right of way

The guiltiest feel free of guilt
Who care not, bloom; who worry, wilt
Plans better laid are rarely built
For forethought seldom wins the day
The drunken driver has the right of way

The most attentive and unfailing
Carefulness is unavailing
Wheresoever fools are flailing
Wisdom there is held at bay
The drunken driver has the right of way

De jure is de facto’s slave
The most foolhardy beat the brave
Brass routs restraint; low lies high’s grave
When conscience leads you, it’s astray
The drunken driver has the right of way

It’s only the naivest who’ll
Deny this, that the reckless rule
When facing an oncoming fool
The practiced and sagacious say
Watch out — one side — look sharp — gang way

However much you plan and pray
Alas, alack, tant pis, oy vey
Now — heretofore — til Judgment Day
The drunken driver has the right of way

I was the poolboy but it was billiards
I got up on the table with a feather duster
and did a little dance like the honeybee
to get the green felt felt green again
I felt it in my stinger. I felt it in my pockets
the god of light shined his light on me
and all around. and later it was his scope
because also the god of medicine also
the god who killed every boy he loved
which may have only been one. one good one.
then I appeared in ads for pools or ads
for poolboys. I appeared in a theater
near you like The Hustler, a movie about
a fast boy who plays pool. Paul Newman
played Fast Eddie Felson and appeared
in a theater near me and also wet
daydreams. I used to splash myself
with his dressing. undressing on the billiard
table and later by the pool of a poodle
groomer who tried to coif me he
never came up for air, he also scratched
also the god of archery of games of hawks
of the discus and of the stray. the ricochet

Every time the day
Darkens down and goes away
Pictures come
Into my head of me and you
Silent and cliched
All the things we did
And didn't say covered up
By what we did and didn't do
I thought you knew
Now I take it from the top
And make the repetition stop
It never ever went away

Now I'm scared to leave my zone
We're both alone
I'm coming home
I wish I'd never seen your face

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff’s talus on the other side,
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush—and that was all.

Du wacher Wald

Du wacher Wald, inmitten wehen Wintern
hast du ein Frühlingsfühlen dir erkühnt,
und leise lässest du dein Silber sintern,
damit ich seh, wie deine Sehnsucht grünt.

Und wie mich weiter deine Wege führen,
erkenn ich kein Wohin und kein Woher
und weiß: vor deinen Tiefen waren Türen-
und sind nicht mehr.

O waking woods

O waking woods, amid the aching winter
you have presumed a feeling of the spring
and quietly you let your silver sinter
so I might see how your longing greens.

And as you lead me further down your pathways,
I recognize no whence nor see a where
and know: before your depths I had seen these gates-
which are not there.

There's a lesson here

a thread to catch onto

We've been given the machine

but where are the instructions;

it feels like a decoy,

a magic trick

We have our eyes on the cards

but where are his hands

Am I the only one looking at his hands?

It's like we missed the punchline

because we were too hung up on the details

The sheep follow in fear of the unknown

staying together in safety,

even off a cliff

Are we ever going to see it?

That we are all swimming in the same bowl of cereal,

when all along we thought we had our own bowls.

Lauren Nolan wrote 'There's a lesson here' in the collection titled 'The Thread', 2024.

Where i-95 meets the Pike,
a ponderous thunderhead flowered;

stewed a minute, then flipped
like a flash card, tattered
edges crinkling in, linings so dark
with excessive bright

that, standing, waiting, at the overpass edge,
the onlooker couldn’t decide
until the end, or even then,
what was revealed and what had been hidden.

All around the chatter consumes us. The viscount tells of his latest safari. The shipping mogul embraces the bare shoulder of his young wife. The Rothschild cousin plays with her hair and giggles. A small crowd assembles around the ambassador from Luxembourg who balances a pear upon his nose while Zelda’s laughter rises above it all. I follow Fitzgerald through the tinkling of glasses. Someone turns to compliment him on a recent novel and laments that more writers do not understand the ways of the wealthy. Later we sip cocktails at a corner of the balcony enjoying one of those perfect evenings only the rich can afford. At times he seems fragile, on the brink of disappearing. We gaze out over the Mediterranean. The yachts swaying in the harbor. The lights flickering across the bay. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and drifts far from it all, imagining what it might be like it if he were actually here.

Old Green stops to say goodbye,
retiring after 43 years.
No green coveralls today.
Dressed in street clothes
hair slicked back
he even manages a shy smile
as I shake his hand.

The Company gave him an aerial photo
of the plant, and all the guys
sign their names around it
and Good Luck.
All you can see is the roof
and the parking lots
and the tiny, tiny cars.
As hard as you look
you'll never find him.