Idyll by Richie Hofmann

Idyll

Cicadas bury themselves in small mouths

of the tree’s hollow, lie against the bark tongues like amulets,

though it is I who pray I might shake off this skin and be raised

from the ground again. I have nothing

to confess. I don’t yet know that I possess

a body built for love. When the wind grazes

its way toward something colder,

you, too, will be changed. One life abrades

another, rough cloth, expostulation.

When I open my mouth, I am like an insect undressing itself.