The Crickets


I like to slit the world into lines
So dusk is a kind of waking music.
Up the road, the orchard is hypnotized with apples
Like stars in a black gravity of stillness.

There is a sea of them, no, this is a voice.
There is the end of a record player
Being peeled, like an apple
With its antennae.

These crickets have one thing to explain
And have not finished it.
A car passes outside the window,
The way you loved me.

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