“Cicadas shed skin,”
They say, the Royal We
“So too, will you,
leave a slight trace”
Like lovers lain in adjoining tombs,
Our mossy lips danced about jar fly songs--
Their spittlebug buzz, and ours too.
We sat sipping wine
Singing under orange-blue skies
We took bets on whether sunrise
Or sunsets -- where sea ends
Or sky begins
Burgundy-black tannins slide down the sides
--‘Til we sip some more--
Your glass with no bottom
My glass with no rim
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