I hear the ocean in the shell
But not the pumpkin: there, I hear
The cicadas of late summer near
The soft rustle of beetleshells
Opening and closing in flight.
I found a dead cicada, too, and listened
To the shell, and heard the wind
I expected to hear something light
A whisper of ghost, perhaps, or else
The dull hum of their mighty horn
As just an echo of the mighty belts
Of summer, and the pumpkin torn
From out the patch too soon, I felt
Like listening, oh little hollow shells stillborn
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