With barely a whisper, the cicadas

With barely a whisper the cicadas
bid adieu and disappear 

last week, we were drowning in tomatoes
fringing with scissors the basil
stirred by their rising symphony 
like rowdy children they were heard but not seen
the electric body, the buzz on the ear’s horizon

the last guests to leave the wedding 
trance-drunk on their own exhilaration
they drop from the circle dance 
or crawl out on all fours
little death then death death

their curved line suspended
by the dry cough of trees
the schism of sun warmth and breeze
pure fidelity goes underground
the open earth breathes deep

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