Wednesday, February 10, 2010


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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