This September katydid has found home on shelves in our dining room.

His roommates are books,
a rock stolen from the drystone walls of Yorkshire
fossil fish,
and whatever the trilobites left
    when their passing seemed almost as negligible as their presence.  
Someone should tell him,
as he chirps his nights away
calling,
begging,
wanting.
Love can’t be found among heady books and artifacts
hard and enveloped
Stonily paralyzed by time

Wings may strike against eachother,
legs rub till they’re raw with heat
And that’s not what we call for either
It’s always the afterward
All of our singing in the night is for naught
When we are inevitably left
Alone and transformed into some relic of the past,
or some words someone may have spoken
then thought memorable enough to pen

A memory of melody
As a turning bird song travelling on air
spring to summer to fall
Even the birds stop their call
   only the cricket is left

All of us lying down
singing until our hearts are no longer our hearts.  

The song changes
The desire always remains the same.