Twice last night. Running with music that drowned them in a sea of guitars. Then biking home. At 1 in the morning, along a thinly moonlit road, the crickets were chirping from deep in thickets where the cold night couldn’t quite punch through the summer-warmed soil and brush. But I couldn’t hear them for all of the self questioning and reprimanding and doubting I was doing. Letting a quiet night slip by with myself self-strung on the rack with a thick pleasure-proof mantle. Such a racket.
There will be silences
when the only sound is
of soles scraping leaves
on wet cement sidewalks.
You’ll breathe through your nose
and swallow thick half-words
that hang up in your throat
while scanning the grey sky for
texture to alight an idea on.
The bonds between flex and crackle
unsure of their command to grow or dissolve
in those quiet moments.