like a poem rather
than a song
not stuck in the head
but in the heart
with an existential reminder
at the end of someone else's sentences

a beetle plucks the string
of the grandfather banjo
the hint that someone is here
too near to see
it's maybe just me

strangled by miles
of telephone wires
locusts are patient and easy
like the turning of the earth
and the kneading of the sea

an elaborate symbol
for restless fingers
untying the knot of uncertainty
missing that which escapes
back into the sky