Hard edges

In the cool hollow behind the house
where the ruddy brick lies etched with moss
the cicada has filled this space with sound
and nothing has gone wrong
in years
here
the creaking of an aluminum chair
the mended bone within a column of muscle
the owner full of dry rot
tears ended
looks around and hears
an infinity of little songs
coming from the bricks
garage, and garden plot
and knows the edge is coming
has come
to cleave this all away
in a single stroke
just like the one she made
upon a keyboard
only one
and a teller's job
in a tight economy
went off without her.