Love
by Alan Britt



It’s wonderful to be in love
with the sable eyes of a cricket,
its reed legs
strumming a song of mercury.

The black September air,
cool,
whispers
as dogs broadcast their daily lives.

Some yelps and howls
resemble shards
of broken glass.

Others sound like grey whales
below dreams
of seaweed.

With its stained-glass light,
love is intangible to humans.

But I would never place myself
in the hands of an engineer of themes.

Instead, I’m attracted
to cicadas and brass-eyed toads
who roam a much wilder universe.

This way I can breathe,
filling my lungs
with black September air
teeming with slugs and stars.

This way I can breathe
the bluewhite light
of a streetlamp
without suffocating.






Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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