The Cricket

There was a day when
Swifter the world turned,
Matting the Queen Anne’s
Lace on the hill, and
The fern and its thin root
Lifted a long beard
Like a haired carrot
Unwinding. The wind heard
The sound of the cricket,
A castanet-quick-catch,
And, as the sun set,
Quickly my wrist watch
Spun both its hands round,
Fine as the fern root,
And to that light sound
I tapped my light foot.

I ran down a hillside
Steep as a staircase;
Flailing my arms, I
Entered a spring house;
Black doors and windows
Closed on my coming,
Casting vast shadows
Up on the ceiling.
Again and again, when
The cricket chirped off in
The wood, I lay down in
My spinning coffin.
Suddenly night ran
Under my eyelid.
The cricket sang tin,
And I pulled down the lid.