The cicadas chirp like a chorus of rusted crickets.
No one has told them
at this late hour
that the earth has been knocked off it’s axis,
rolling across the bare floor of the galaxy
with a hollow echo,
the sound of a billiard ball on limestone tile.
No one has told them
that the universe has been unhinged,
a mobile without a counter-weight,
stars and planets dangling on threads
in jarring asymmetry.
I never thought getting what I wanted
would be so dizzying,
but then,
I never thought I’d see
the sun rise in the west either.
I sit and watch,
tinges of blushing pink
chasing the speckled darkness eastward
while the pacific sees its first sunrise.
Like a creaking metronome,
the cicadas keep up their frog-like chirping
unaware of morning,
unaware that the monumental has occurred.
