I know the sound of a cricket song, abrasive to the ear—those crooked legs aching away at each other. They burrow under my skin in dreams while the thin spindle limbs of spiders tiptoe across my nails. It’s never well to hear an insect walk—never well to see my eyes veiled with lace as I start to think, muse horrid things in sleepless nights [the slow dripping rot of skin off bones, exposed cobalt veins, itching flaking skin that melts at the touch—tired eyes with the red wire lines ache for a sleep without the locust creeping] These metal chairs bear gumball spot-welds—effective and ugly like the play-out of each afternoon. I’ll hide in the shade until the awful crawl of insects on my hands awake me. Eating the evenings and drinking the sober smoke of night.
written sometime 2011.