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.
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