Mind whirs
as if cicada were thorax-pinned
to specimen board.
Chores chorus-shrill
headache-making insect trill
prompting ineffectual pill.
I don't know what to do.
I miss you.
No order presents itself,
no figure with officious list,
ostentatious-licking pencil lead.
Must work it out myself.
I miss you.
That meagre glimpse of how things
could be,
must be my talisman.
Taliban-thoughts help no-one,
i must be strong –
mountains are composed of single grains.
As am I
myself made of atoms
anchored by pragmatic circumstances.