I heard un-hallow crickets
play mandolin in
small city grass strips
far from rubber-asphalt
grips of cars passing
in the distance.
Their moon-muscle
moved silence
somewhere else,
alone and terrifying,
turning itself
in burning sun towers or
….something like that.
Screaming, scraping
wings of little
creakers; are they
also scared?
Does he beat
his wings bloody
until the stringy veins
of his back snap
and cripple under
the weight of Sun Towers?
Would blades of grass seduce
his open wound, whispering
woes into his wake
about his wonder?

My solitude requires nightlights
and their earthly choir.

Artwork by S.K. Garcia

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