“The Great Dying has begun,” 
says the grim woman in this online group,
referencing the cicadas of Brood XIV.
And yes, I hear them less–but there’s so much
I tune out now: the heartbeat puff of air
from an oxygen condenser, certain TV shows
that pass through me like water,
and many other things I have loved once
before becoming consumed
with what was right here: the cicadas,
the sanitary bed,
the page its own kind of bed.
And the million little stories I make up
to get through to the other side.