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.