The Ears Of The Cricket

The ears of the cricket are on its legs, and a voice like opera

Comes out of the fish to resume reconciliation. Pack

The ooze of emotion in a suitcase of poetry

Boxed in dirt, where the yearning is soft

And harsh necessity is willing to abdicate

To a hot delirium if the melody is wearing feathers

Try to think of this as a poem evident in the cloth

Of the moment. This moment, which is perfect

To tell you about bugs. What can we do about bugs?

I find most bugs to be charming, honest, and baritone

I just don’t want to play around with them anymore

My favorite animal is faith itself

And all the questions I have regarding life and death

I believe olives are eyeballs that grow on the limbs

Of martini trees. And then once in a while it rains

Watercolor antlers nudge life into a new idiom

In which the pasta has been chained to a passport

Glistening with environmental sorrow

A dent in the syntax will obliterate the clock

And if you look closely into the heart of the universe

You will see a forest of Peruvian X-rays

Humming in the heat of the jungle

Never scorn a handstand appareled in watermelon

Only yesterday I saw an octopus

Demonstrate vegetable cutters on the waterfront

Which led me to a deeper understanding of tassels

Have you ever photographed a barracuda

With your head? There is a camera of the mind

Where the film is developed by hunger

But you can choose your own chemicals

And step into the experience of yourself

Dawdling in secrets and argyle. The opus grows

Into a cake. The dirt has its own stomach. Toothpicks

Return us to crickets. Where our ears mirror

The appearance of sound in a dead man’s name