The cicadas come at night, after you
fall soundly in the trance of your booklight,
buzzing pages. Forget, there’s no undo.
The cicadas come at night,
arriving several years apart despite
love’s hindwings clung to bark whose heart is true.
We burrow in those pages craving sight
and air and words– we gather in droves to
kiss your hand though you think it is a bite.
We wait years and always return to you.
The cicadas come at night.
(originally published in The Road Not Taken, Summer 2016)