In a Sentimental Mood


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.

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.


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.