In the grasping silence of a kitchen,
crickets ring through gaping windows. Chaos
sets in hyperconnected fantasy
where I stand, elbows on a stool, folded,
aching, listening for the next cycle,
and the snap of sticky feet shifting in
place; fingers light on bulletproof glass tap
out rainfall, stealing breath from the flat dark,
expelled later, eyes closed, warm hand on skin,
face down in a pillow, suffocating.
But I wake up; they all do. The beds warm,
empty, as the crickets dream of new strings.
© Trapper Markelz 2020
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