Into the Teeth of the Wind
Selected poem from Volume IV, Issue 1
Crickets
At first I heard them outside and through
The walls of my room like shrill blood
Pumping in arteries, the pulse this night
Balancing my off-keel desire to give up.
Keys being made against the grind. The excite
Of messages in telephone wires. Curlicues of song,
As if small wood shavings flame lit,
And in them the sound of fire's tongue. What
If they rounded the plane of night,
Each chirp a nicking out at dark, lathe and soft pound
Of the nocturnal lift; lift of the weight that
Day leveled us with, and then, like gravity, our hearts?
They stroke what if syllables short and bright,
Spell a name missing that sings us to sleep. But sound,
If we could see your vibrating body, or wrap
Our fingers about your swell, what would you feel like,
Your fluidity, the grasp and fathoming of you? Tell.
Now, All I can do is unwind you as you light
Evening in my heart, flooding every crevasse of the night
With little gods that stop and start.