Friday, October 6, 2017


The insects are settling down

Their chatter is losing its vehement sexual edge

that need to be close to one like ourself—
a cry in the night
now squeezed by the throat

Delirious, they asked too much of the summer 
and summer obliged them, sending all her confections 
to the lilies and the valleys they preyed upon 
where everynight was a feast to completion,
a sigh of the sword passing straight through the heart, 
chain metal bursting, like blossoms in heat

You kings and you queens,
you knights and vassals 

Now bats—
the phantom marauders of autumn—
circle the skies overhead

and I watch their ballet

as they pluck the feckless heathens of August 
into their mouths   
without breaking speed

their madness an engine timed out to the minute 
the silence enthralling, 
the hum within  

So the moon, white and fat, 
parts her trees like a bride
in mourning again

So the leaves and I tremble,


Charles Gramlich said...

Some great lines here. "Feckless heathens of august." Great!

Sarah Hina said...

Thank you kindly, Charles! :)

the walking man said...

Living in the middle of the city I only get to witness the hypersexualized insects, no bats to make them Baptist or some other restrictive practice. I must be some kind of flower because they never leave me bee. I am watching the leaves tremble too but not with any expectation of the moon which remains obscura for most of the night, she may part her trees as I would like but then my visions are different and rarely quiet.

Dang Sarah you're back in the groove. Nice writing with very sound imagery for the imagination of one living most likely on a distant planet.

Be Well

Sarah Hina said...

Thanks, Mark!

In all honesty, the insects sound as they ever did, but my brain decided they should be growing wan and sluggish, so thus they were, voila.

That moon really was something else, though.

roth phallyka said...

Feckless heathens of august." Great!