I heard un-hallow crickets
play mandolin in
small city grass strips
far from rubber-asphalt
grips of cars passing
in distance.
Their moon-muscle
remembered
to move silence
somewhere else,
alone and terrifying,
twisting itself
in burning sun towers or
...something like that.
Screaming, scraping
wings of little
creakers; are they
also scared?
Does he beat his wings ******
until the stringy veins
of his back snap
and ******* under
the weight of Sun Towers?
Would blades of grass ******
his open wound, reduced to
whispering
woes into his wake
about his wonder?

My solitude requires nightlights
and their temporal choir.