Cicadas,

millipedes

from the backyard

of plants

and ponds

die

on the cot

of leaves

laid

inside my pocket,

scorched

by the noon sun

or

crushed

by my grip

on an oversized

trouser,

that always smelled

of mushrooms,

milk

and moist wood.

Post script:

perhaps it was

(or perhaps not)

the summer

when I first felt

the unnerving heaviness

of sentences

that report death.

2006

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