#135

The cricket I escorted
out of the kitchen
beneath a glass jar
and piece of white paper
(a few days ago)
is now chirping forlornly
outside my front door–
calling, I read somewhere,
for his mate.

This entry was published on 12.30.14 at 10:57 pm. It’s filed under creative writing, journal entry, poetry, prose poetry, small stones, writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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