A Cricket Cries to the Moon

I listen to a cricket

I name James Joyce.

We are both up past midnight

Too late, talking in our own idiosyncratic ways

To an ice maiden of a moon

Indifferent to us both.

I hear the intonation of a long yarn

Some indignation of tone, a slight agitation

While I wait my turn. Mine is a different tale

Less urgent, silent as the dreams of the sleeping ,

Punctuated with pause

Insubstantial, undecorated, travelling slowly.

James Joyce is up all night and in the morning is lamenting

Still, a fallen hero croaking through the day as Molly and Leopold

Unravel in his writing blooming into life.

The moon moves on, the book unfinished

 

Though the next day the urgency is still there

The cricket going on and on

And on until his lungs rupture from the crying

As he chases her through the universe

 

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

 

 

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