And the cicadas whirred

I was opening my hand in darkness
Opening and closing my hand
Thinking about all the things we did
Things we thought about
things we’d never do
And the cicadas whirred . . .

After dinner we broke out the recliners
In the dimming light, tiny rivers of lightning
coursed the belly of the clouds
snaking toward the setting sun
Forking like the veins and arteries
the roots of my heart

I felt your hand on my heart
your smile was not pretty

And the cicadas whirred . . .

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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