makeshift refuge

"allow me, 
to show you the interior,"
hisses the hungry maw
on a muscular rope

but the cricket leaps
into a garage and probes
boxes of forgotten shoes
and obsolete gadgets

a choir sweeps the cricket
to others nestled in the folds
of an old favorite shirt
crumpled behind paint cans

lulling each other
with songs of refuge,
they dream of ropes without orifices
and cricket houses, Mid-century modern

while parasitoids possessed
by choral arrangements
nest into cricket bodies and dream
of flight paths and aerial maneuvers

warped hammock

what resonates below
in this bent hull
but a shimmer from above
where the sunlight plays
a humble tune 
on tattered strings
stretched all the way out
to a crooked horizon

Here’s a humble tune of hope I sometimes play when I feel like I’m swinging in a warped hammock.