The prayer Cicada
I.
their sound the roaring tumble of an airplane,
yelping a nascent cry of living...
soon the motor drone will cease cicada,
your moss-green intonation,
burrowed into the syntax of the Buddhist's haiku
and the southerner's humid laboring atop
sun baked bricks,
your harmonics that thumbed their way
into the neighborhood's ears,
like wave dolloped shores whooshing a
stream of consciousness, subtle
as the intake of breath or even less perceptible,
like a thought, will be filled by crickets and car alarms
and gloomy maniac screams, imperfect silence is the night
when you depart cicada.
autumn's care-worn smile kills the le
