The Youngest Two Hear Cicadas

Tennessee: We are here, between trees,

with the tempo of a rosary being strung

in a queue of escalating beads—

Carolina: It’s not quite the count in

the countinghouse of my chest

but the heart does make an awful attempt

t: and a circle wherever it may be

there was music coming on

c: which though machinery-like

moves not in cogs, and never

springs, but waves through

t: like wired applause for antic backstage

buds on the pre-comeuppance buzz; but it

fades

c: but only after the chorus has pulsed

t: it drops off with sudden decision, like fountain

water gone dross

c: or it reaches the furthest point

the branch turns from us, and is for some arc

fully quiet...

t: until the roulette snaps its jaw and the choir’s

circuit opens to one

c: like a pigeon unhinged, its wings

in sudden white-rumped ascent

t: unopposed by iridescence

c: unopposed by iridescence