Summer Aubade

crushed gnats, butterflies,
cicadas shells,
a juiceless dragonfly
a hoard of buzzes, a hoard of horse flies, clinching limbs
snapping door screens

“So this is the morning song?” She.
“Yes. An aubade for you.” He.
“No. A love song?” She.
“A morning love song. For you.” He.

the bending sound-
what, the Ear asks, is that sound
of sharp scattering stutters
or soft scuttling beats of buzzes
like the sound of flip-flops on street pavements,
then gravel,
then hardwood floor,
then pavement.

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