1: 55 A.M. Poem by RIC BASTASA

the cicadas still sing
that early
in this small town and
everyone is

in fact everything is
so quite that if you
are awake at this hour
unholy as they call it

(but so holy to me
i think)

i can still hear
the voice wanting
to be spoken
deep inside the
linings of my
esophagus

there is this mummy
of the sarcophagus
wanting to be
reborn

honestly the name
still slips
in my tongue

perhaps this could
be the poem
about cicadas
and their songs

or the sound of
quiet
the murmur
of peace
long gone
now
trembling at the
tip of my lips

who knows?
if at a little stare
on the wall
soon i shall understand
and decipher
what slime is there
that wants to speak
inside my
throat
but still wanting to
be swallowed
honestly