poem – Page 2

Insect Music

Howling through the houses,
insect music plays us a song.

The windows rattle and shake,
fluff balls whoosh from hiding.

The clouds move undecidedly,
sun, grey, sun, grey, sun, grey.

We have a lazy mixed-up day,
undecided about what to do.

Touch my cold parts
warm my refrigerated heart
Take me on a journey
flam throw me with your love
Touch my aged skin
be my fire in the winter dark

Saltwater soaked skin
Sand and shells in between my toes
Sea-swept hair lightened by the sun
Saltwater soaked soul

Take me from this place
where work is all-consuming
sleeping until noon

Emmentaler cubes
Rustic tables, cedar chairs
Fresh, clear apple juice
Laughter and the sound of love,
a merry apple harvest

To be young is less
than admirable to the
grumpy old cretins

A faint whisper
from a long summer.

A dark blanket
from a cold winter.

By the sea,

By the hills,

By both, we
feel cool
against
the skin.

Encased within winter,
between the green hills
and
the blanket grey sky
you hear a faint whisper.

You hear a whisper
from spring,
a spring
cool
against
the skin.

Quibble with a fish
Such language in the bubbles
Hiding in the depths

in a sea of tired
dropping kitchen utensils
awake and asleep