For a dead cicada
A wall of sound
cicadas thrum in the tree
in the heat a crescendo
like mystics conjuring
tropical fevers or verdant lust
One lies near the roots
fallen silent and still
wings like unstained Tiffany glass,
big as your thumb
crisp as fried pork rinds
hollowed out by ants
six legs bent as if
it did not make it through
one last evening
prayer
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