the crickets outside snore quietly,

like children with a cold.

and the stars are grey and dusty,

tired, as i am ,of going through the motions again-and-again-and

your words crash against each other,

sending up sparks,

brighter than stars, brighter than the moon.

a dirty half-lemon,

squeezing out a yellow ,clammy light,

in protest.

 but those words

gnaw at me like fruit bats

till all is left is a pit,

barren, cold,

hoping, hopelessly, for rain.