Compound-eyed constellations of Michigan crickets
shake like sleigh bells in the dry straw next door,
their mesothoracic rhapsody of wings,
their antennae calibrating moonlight

as the two of us sail the front porch step,
our knees chest-bent, chins at rest on bony joints
while breath bellows from our ciliated nostrils,
the gears and springs and interlocking teeth,

the flapping sails inside us, furious.
A single cricket somewhere close by clicks
like the plastic teeth of a thumbed comb,
like the slurring parade of days in late summer.

The crickets have cranked up a vehement glockenspiel
to the wet smell of lawn, the moonlit cows
across the street rearranging without having moved,
your hand on mine for so long I can't feel it there.

Through the door behind us and up the dark stairs
Sofia finds the orbit of sleep—she fires the jets to the first
place we can't follow, while I'm sometimes desperate to be so alone
to pull the collar of my shirt up over my head

and breathe my own rich breath,
and flush my face on the heat of my body,
fully contained in my soft cotton shell
as Sofia must have been when she

water-bugged the world of your expanding belly,
breathing in her dinner, entirely free
of association and language
so that our voices must've tangled

with the barking dog, the plucked notes of a guitar,
the electric hum of appliances
until they scribbled her aspiring ears
like a swamp-full of peepers and redwing blackbirds

and I think, Here, on this porch, your hand knowing mine,
the rapturous cricket-song ratcheting down,
and slowing now into low croaked waves,
we almost speak the language of listening.

And we're tired, I know, we're so fucking tired,
but why shouldn't we unfold our bent legs
and let out our wings and play games with gravity,
our tympanic membranes rippling with translation?

Why shouldn't we be proud to listen life into a field,
into the rocketing capsule of a crib,
into the dimly humming
spheres above?