The Cricket
You too have risen at midnight
shoe in your hand
hunting the shrill cricket,
shaken off dream
with its elegant cigars
and streets that never led
to your destination, listened–
the lamp on, magnifying
your substance as shadow–
heard nothing. No one
will sing until it’s dark again
and you have lain down. It is
God’s law. The cricket chirps
louder than an ambulance
back in the black night. You too
have wanted only to lie in bed
until you grow small, until
you can smell pines again
or maybe lilacs because
it has been forever
and you are dying again
which feels like waiting. Dear Friend
here is a little quiet
so quiet you can feel
a distant car go by
like a shimmer in your breastbone,
your breath in the past.
Sleep with me now
while the moon turns
the color of ice. This cricket
will die before you do,
trill in the underworld
like an alarm set
to wake the spirits
who need their sleep
even more
than we do, for they
have paid the price
of forgetfulness. We still
hear our fathers, we still need
our mothers, but we cannot
help them and we
cannot turn away. The cricket
hides in his corner
with his bright pulse
sexing the dark. You too
have peered out the window
at shapes uncertain
listening for a location
while the stars reveal
their torrid love affairs. It’s blue
as the sea. You need only
to smell the sweet acacia
once more. The cricket
persists. His love
is loud as a police whistle
in your shadow of a room
that soon will be stuffed with ghosts—
and then it ceases. Silence
rings out. Now
it’s all about trust,
the resin scent from sweet acacia.
Because it has been forever—
and all our problems
are the old problems,
be ye bug or man.
