Here, where the dark of night is pinned to the sky,
a black felt yarmulke against heaven’s empty dome—

Here, where the trees bend down, secret and silent,
pine bark pliant under summer’s shadowed heat—

Here, where a low hanging star can cut the sky
with curls of flame, impossible atmospheric blue—

Here, where the cicadas squeeze songs from their joints,
push their rising cant into the porous quiet—

Here, surrounded by the phantoms of a fleeting earth,
I will raise my voice and try and sing you home.