Yester-eve a wayward cricket
Sang in my living room
A straitjacketed pan pipe
A wind chime short of breath

And so I hit pause
And found him lounging
Between the toy chest
And the disused wood stove

And later that same concave night,
Another call came rolling
Round the inner curvature
Of the tiny hours

The train’s long strained draw
Rounding up the mountainside
Bending humans and insects
And their sleeping children

And it reached me, though
Only deep in my hollow wall
Of sleep, the darkening sounds,
The whorls and hollow rounds

Before those depths, I had
No night in me, I was a benign
Refugee, a frank refusal
Still caught up in quiet light

But her tremor gathered up
This house, and twisted—and
Where it bowed and buckled,
She found her way in to

Draw my covers down, and breathe
Her quiet song into me


There will be signs,
Neon bulbs on a slow cycle,
The path will be lit
By fireflies pulsing panic
In the vocal sacs of
Bullfrogs—There may be
A pole for dancing, hanging
Over a lusty abyss, a gaze—
You are an object,
Unsung, a laden ship
Crowded out of this port.
Eat the black candy
And smile us the night,
Hang gobo moonflower
On the watch batteries
Of your organs.
Keep this song repeating,
Keep your small sign lit.
This drift wants you,
Your body, your name,
A minor tariff to
Dock and disembark
In our Midnight City
Of lanterns.

JESSE MIKSIC is a graphic designer and writer living in Peekskill, New York. He spends his life writing poetry, nursing unfinished projects, and having adventures with his wonderful wife and daughter. His recent work can be found in the American Journal of Poetry, Praxis Magazine, Liminality, and others.
Website: http://www.miksimum.com // Twitter: @miksimum // Instagram: @miksimum