there are crickets in the city
if you listen,
chirping to the hum of the halogen lamps,
and behold, the concrete gods there
above them have collected
what the sun once willed for a field of grass,
but now it’s nighttime when the moon peeks
thru the sultry summer city,
and the steel-and-glass are planted
where the cornfields died,
what for crickets goes remembered
is forgotten by the chirping
of alarm-bells ringing when the sun would rise,
and I wonder as they silence,
all the crickets of the city,
are they lonely, lost-and-found there
round the cement pond,
the blades of green all sparse and browning
are a haven for a chirping
all too grateful, all too happy
for what is and not what’s not.

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