A painting by Yangyang Pan.
Read these lips.
And even the crickets refused to sing
as the days approached summer’s foot.
They cower in the night and tied their wing,
under dead stars and skies black as soot.
And try as I might to recall their song
or trace across the highway the stars’ nightly route,
my heart fails to return where it had once belonged,
slumped in an upset where crickets and heart are mute.
And I’ll douse every star’s tail
just to let them crash into the atmosphere,
to tug on each their incandescent, effulgent skirt,
and make falling stars race down to earth.
And I too shall have my pockets empty
of every coin, a dime, a nickel, a penny
all riches I will trade into your hand,