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.
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