““Cicadas bury themselves in small mouths of the tree's hollow, lie against the bark tongues like amulets, though it is I who pray I might shake off this skin and be raised from the ground again. I have nothing to confess. I don't yet know that I possess a body built for love. When the wind grazes its way toward something colder, you, too, will be changed. One life abrades another, rough cloth, expostulation. When I open my mouth, I am like an insect undressing itself.””
