The art of falling apart

We whose hearts have been gripped by life, scoff at the idea of art as mere ornametation --Paul Violi

1. Summer is          a sky built of cicadas.
I can hear the heat
gathering in thin tymbals

vibrating to captivation. How
many hours can an insect sing. Summer
is    a choir and there is only --no

where we can go to escape
its fevered instruments    cresting
like heartbeats exposed

to the grip of lizard brain.  2. Unearthed bones of a poet:
do you see the way the hand
turned to stone in the shape

of a question mark. How can anyone
hear this world and not understand
the art of falling apart

as anything but the sensible thing to do