The newspaper calls it
a crisis

billboards stretched with 
grasshopper husks

for helplines 
on the public transit

Burying yourself  
in the warmth
of cicada song
rippling down shoulder blades
in sensual
cotton candy warmth

a familiar tightness in throat
that you recall
from trying
to sing fear
in dreams

but the gravedigger 
isn't ready 
to say goodbye

waiting in the gas station 
parking lot
with knuckles white
around the shovels handle
on the night 
you kissed the moon silver 
& the gravedigger kissed you
with narcan on his lips