sick of my own morbidity—death a non-stop
loop over three loss-filled years
I turn to consider crickets as they pitch
their winged violas in September’s early threat
there are 800 species—how could we know
their differences by their songs so low
and synchronous—death-sweet and seeping
through nocturne walls
they sing together as they know things
each low-bowed wing strokes its upper half
in self-contained lovemaking
they sing, they sing their distant cricket
symphony while the world slumbers
knowing when winter comes
it’s time to fold their tiny corpses
into earth
whereas the stealth house crickets—so clever
defy you with their will to live all winter
singing acapella “now—now—now”
and “live”
loop over three loss-filled years
I turn to consider crickets as they pitch
their winged violas in September’s early threat
there are 800 species—how could we know
their differences by their songs so low
and synchronous—death-sweet and seeping
through nocturne walls
they sing together as they know things
each low-bowed wing strokes its upper half
in self-contained lovemaking
they sing, they sing their distant cricket
symphony while the world slumbers
knowing when winter comes
it’s time to fold their tiny corpses
into earth
whereas the stealth house crickets—so clever
defy you with their will to live all winter
singing acapella “now—now—now”
and “live”
from their hidden plots
