Today I read the news of twisted north,
where suns were drowned in seas of angles.
I asked the cicada why her wings were made of words,
why spell a painting backwards.

It is the end of an era she said,
your greatest work refutes you.
The kaleidoscope of tangerines is winding down to nothing.
You should have read welsh poets.

There is no rational, I countered.
You can take apart a body but not a mind.
When I looked again her wings spread over the sky.
It was a parking ticket.

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