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.