How can they chirp, those mindless bugs?
Soon to expire in gecko’s mouth-hugs.
But now they hop on the warm’d sand,
as if they’d found fertile new land.
Dumped out of an old coffee can
into glass-box---quickly they ran.
Some climb up warming-rock cords
find escapees along our baseboards.
Those who remain sing in that space,
must know time’s short for cricket race.
Anaximander, oh. . .that’s his silly name
he’ll hunt down each of his insect game.
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