still life with dust and chicory

to a locust
the sounds of birth
and lovesick and dying
beget the same shrill
banshee trill
piercing the static august
backyard stew at dusk
a chime hung
on repetition
aloha
shalom

the park is dead
except for the dying
even the pert blue flower
of chicory
which can thrive in the
tundra of a tough heart
clenches its withered fingers
cowers against the fist
of drought

love has settled
it is dust
it is a film of love
it is a paste of love
on you always
but you go about the day
doing what shakes it loose
and then you wonder
where it’s gone

and then you make
the sound of locusts

and then you cower
against the fist of drought