In August’s mouth you waited,
asked stockinged knees
to germinate and held
the future close. There is no past;
no memory for you of cicadas
crawling from broodsleep to chorus in
the tall grass. Rather they are husks to
pile in gathered linen
shirt, chartaceous cenotaphs for
those long left with the rain.
But stay a while longer, love
at the join we call the present.
The field will soon be fallow, its
choir still. Cicadas spend a fraction
of their lives above the ground while
you chart your track like buckshot
across a barn’s new plaster.
Reserve acuity for circumstance
and draw water till you’ve snapped
the handle. There is time;
empire’s need will keep.
