Crickets are a strange place,
cricks of dew hemmed
with hoar-frost
mushrooming by a door.
The glens are fashions of a loom
eerie pads
are nightly rooms.
The padlocks
remove the key
as grass-hoppers
keep the meadow free.
A twilight world
along the edge
at rapier's length
this light, this point
at end of the void.