changing channels

This summer is a mild racket. Like legions

of crickets rubbing statistics from their tiny wings


Twenty-four-hour news seeps through mesh

into oversweet air, wanting not to disturb


our scrim of little miseries. There’s

your lover waiting for you to think more of him.


He is your Penelope. He can pierce the airborne

world, fill the empty bow. There’s the list:


case of beer, fishing pole, drowning

lake, closed since the fish stopped


but you’d forgotten, got the pole. Cricket’s chirp is

generated by raising a forewing, rubbing it against


the staggering calm. This stridulating sound is also

called brain quiet. Here on the western front.