Cicada Moon

Each of us leaves

our shell

clinging

to the branch of a tree

at the end of Summer 

for a boy

who is walking around

the lake

listening for the sounds

of cicadas- 

that long jawing valve

of an accordion

cutting into thick night- 

hoping for one last

glance under the moon,

one last peek

at the musician,

and who finds

just the exoskeleton of romance

harbored to bark.

Politics of an Accordion Romance Under the Moon

A two row button accordion

August night, the bellows

stretched all the way out

across the bed, fingers

dancing, hips swaying,

the surprise of improvised music

moaning and swanky, leading

to this place, where the past melts

into grooves of profound present

sounds, a pleasure no one expected

to hear so soon.

Sweat, skin,

the pump of an organ. We busy

our life and touch moments

like this for respite, for memories,

in the middle of an unmusical day.