I. What else can be done than listen to bloated nature? Its fluid consistency: some sort of masculine fleece or livid crocus, blending in with the blips in the night. The crickets still chirp; they’ve been up all night again, the bastards, roaming the homelit streets and short-cut lawns. Somenight, their cries might stop: A final, feverish, rubbing together of jagged legs. The close wonderer will notice the lamentable ululation in the loam, in the air. II. There is a miraculous fading and folding in the dark as it shifts into morning. This is it. The first bird will chirp any minute. The music has lifted from the player’s nail and knuckle, sounds tender and freshly orange, like a nectarine. The early worm has wriggled into the fruit, and I have bit.
