except that it measures less than one inch and that the male makes a chirping sound   oh female mantella expectata why are you so mysterious?   is it you who senses a meteor's approach? are you the totem of that blast?   you've crossed the foothills of evolution a sleek particle of the wider world all the time in Her Majesty's Secret Service cures and poisons disguised within you as-yet-unread Super Credentials invisibly flashing like border gates   why not dispense with the cloak and dagger and exude and testify today?   I'll be the scientist you confide in I'll be the one changing these words to numbers   the scarf is wrapped around lunch from third grade pegs of tator tots, a hot dog, canned corn, and milk   I take a picture of it and sell it to a museum glossy and square it is called Menu:  The Early Years   and though it is remarked upon through lips both lipsticked and not it is nowhere near as remarkable as the mummy downstairs around whose crumbling chamber a class of third-graders is wrapped stinky little people full of experimental obscenities drooling sugar     of the 100 Miguels I like you the best the one who doesn't exist the one with the corn souffle   I saw you yesterday wind surfing yellow and firm against the loose gray water   I think we had a long conversation once about how everything is brief and maybe we took a walk way back when with a big dog past a hundred small yards   Miguel my friend the rain was so dreadful it conjured you up a man with salty food and sunshine the one whose number came up and me lucky enough to have picked it