In Jersey’s Pine Barrens crickets rub their saw-toothed wings and I’m a child.
A city child now a city man with woods between my ears behind my eyes.
Swarms, throngs, populist masses, agglomerationists, millionings.
Louisiana katydids of a wet summer night beep inside my brains.
Live theater. Intermissions. Who programmed that siren test pattern?
You cicadas and your washboard jingle bells and what’s that boing-ing?
Mississippi mosquitoes. Maine black flies. Vermont hornets.
Acetylene. Blackbirds. Power lines. Aluminum foil.
All tuned up at once. My skull plates ache. Is that hail?
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