Late Summer Cicadas

The cicada in autumn claws its love Sounds against the glass door – I know Love this way. These thoughts, upturned tables tossing Contents, ours, mimic the grind of Violence sweet sugar, soot, love. I don’t whose raspy voice Whose jagged-edged lips Who raggedy broken tipped Claws life-splintered these Remembrances are, But I’ve heard the same raging rise Scraping fade on battlefield’s: ghostly New Lisbon, Morgan’s Raid. Many hopeful days crank I would Pedals backward giving gravel The same great growl. Now the greatness in the rough voice is between The notes, the gap, the place where he waits For an answer, so full of hope We both could burst.