Revision

Poems by Roger Pfingston

Friday evening, about eight,
lamplight glowing in a glass
of Cabernet, trying to perfect
or simply finish a twelve-line poem

when I look up at my daughter's gift
of yesterday, presented palm open:
cicada shell, front legs poised
like tiny lobster claws, fibrous hairs

defined by back-light, its plated back
puckered where it split from itself,
goggle-eyed, a droll smile dried
on its face, pleased with its revision.