By Barbara Regenspan
The cicadas come to me
at three in the morning.
are inside the room,
hiding in darkness.
The dust on the floor
as particles of soil,
when they'll reclaim their soul
He said, there are crystals in your ear.
I can break them up with one painful tweak.
He did; they didn't.
He said, your mind is stretching to hear
what it used to—and can no longer—
so it generates sound to fill the silence.
She knows now: on its way out,
everything is vibrating; hear it
and try not to answer. Let it stand in
for the last beautiful word.
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