Cricket Shanty
Blistering outside. Nothing crisp in
bubbling bayou soup. I lay inside, starve
stovetop simmer, soul selling to keep
myself from leaving. I love these moltan
welts, moss topping abysmal screeching, ice
cream truck holds the blue flame of winter
beneath the haze. I cling to that
eerie cloying iceberg melody, deep in
the northern homescape, come winter
the bodies cease to smell. Why chew with
your mouth closed in a city stacked with desert?
Whoever I kiss falls back into mirth.
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