Black cricket, caught in one gear on the cusp,

nibbling at an edge of the firmament,



you are an afterthought of hunger & belief

at twilight, driving the stars ad nauseam.



So, you think you know loneliness, huh?


Are you hiding beneath a stone, little coward,



or clinging to a dead reed? Your song is the only

evidence you’re here, a loop of post-modern jive,



the keening of a lonely string across bridge & limbo.

Joy. Woe. A drop of awe craves the lowest note



in the tall grass. The night says, Don’t pity

the one tuned by obsession, this old begging.




Yusef Komunyakaa