The way cicadas sing:

Rhythmic like rocking chairs 

Creaking in the night - 

Stretched out seconds 

Swinging like pendulums, 

Like indecisive waves retreating 

To expose their sandy underbelly.

The reality of time stripped raw, 

Which creeps in the cracks

Of roads left in car dust,

Forgotten in the midst

Of chaotic distractions -

Blurred shapes smudged by spinning tires 

And paranoid lights

Racing like shoes through city subways…

It’s all slowed to a halt.

And in this quiet stillness

Live fragments of cemented summer.