August

The cicadas get so loud sometimes

shooting hoops in the saturated air
the sweat finally spilling over the ridge of
carefully plucked eye brows
or
the heavy lowness of the
pregnant clouds,
always to blame for missed shots.

spending
hours of metal rimmed sibling rivalry
decorating each other like soldiers for
every two-pointer because
the arch and swoosh is the
only way the air ever
gets moving around here.

stiff-armed shoves over
back-yard rules and
mounting shouts climbing the tired
vines around the court
drowned by a hum in the valley the

cicadas get so loud sometimes.

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