A cicada husk
clings to the gum
legs locked
body gone.
A tide line of shells
on the salt flats,
white mouths open
to nothing.
A home
gutted by wildfire
windows still holding
the shape of light.
A leaf
caught in spider silk,
still shaped like falling.
I move like that now
shape without weight,
waiting for a breeze
to decide
if I stay
or scatter.
Ryan Stone
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