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Caught in the rain between April and June,
deluged by the seventeen year symphony,
the night belongs to cicadas
and to me.

This is not Paris, the muddy Ohio
has no aspirations of being the Seine.
The tallest smoke stack
on this left bank

will never be mistaken for the Eiffel Tower
but the same moon that shines there
will shine here
as soon as  the weather breaks.