It’s a wonder that anyone sleeps
through this throb of crickets.
In the crook of night, they pulse,
shrill with discarded woes:
last week’s indignity, some spilled chance,
a secret plight, the triumphant lie.
Soon the birds will arrive
to suck it up. They’ll give us dawn
digested, ready to run. It’s them
we’ll thank, forgetting again
this fury that flushes our veins.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 3.
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