a poem by Roger B Rueda
in a schematised
sign of the heavens,
which is resplendent
with figures of divinities
turning my woe,
i plop shingles
amidst my dactyls.
in this daily dozen
i find a relief
for cricks as little
as that bold,
shivered-pinioned
cicada resting,
sneaking on the tilt
of a palm leaf.
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