Tuesday, October 16, 2012

For a dead cicada


For a dead cicada


A wall of sound
cicadas thrum in the tree
in the heat of 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 pork rinds
hollowed out by ants
six legs bent as if 
they did not make it through
one last evening  prayer.

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