A grasshopper squats on my toppled boot in the hall, a leather stage where he persists in playing his autodidact notes to the scattered journals and ripped out paper scraps twitching in the air from the floor fan.
I lie on my chest, stare at his polished blood bags for eyes. His greenness is lucid and vile. Green walks on green, with clearer green grouting his wings like some immaculate stenciling on a living sketchpad.
I open my hand for him like an arriving limousine and he stops his grating legs but will not step in. I pinch him up. He is as light as the whisper of the word origami, but his rest is not without great tension.
I find a spot in the dirt of my apartment’s exterior window box and plant the recitalist abed surrounded by cacti with their arms thrown wide in ovation.
In this new frenzied amphitheater I wait to behold the scene I’ve orchestrated.
But his collar holds him stiff, like the high brace of a whiplash patient. His song is not.
A broken instinct conducts him to leap, to remove his bodily instrument out to a far obscurity, fifteen stories down to the hard gray beneath, erased along the way.