The breath of sluggish heat
has scarcely touched a lost cicada’s
feeble sistrum in the wind.
It fails and dies.

It cuts away the secret vein
from deep inside us,
so our world
can hardly stand.

And if you point at it,
the rotting remnants
that the void can’t swallow
tremble in the darkening air.

At which you drop your hand.
Each voice is silent.
Barren life is flowing downwards
to its estuary.