damp, green: a starfish pulling in weather
and clinging to its desire for things
to fall. I miss the deciduous. I miss
knowing frailer things outside the bound-
arilessness of this primordial soup.
There used to be Time and now there is only
endure. Last, last, last summer, last— It breathes
in the space between the mouth and lobe of
the ear – it does not quite kiss. It does not
quite whisper. It says hot in the way only
hot can be exhaled. I can smell what it
has recently eaten. It pushes (push)—
it says last, its opening growing wider.
It is the only moving thing, this dilating
hole. All else and I, we merely stay. It
is the second day of autumn, meaning
“A mouth parts its boundary and sighs” or
“This soup can swallow” or “Nothing can fall
while we thicken and open.” Push, it says, hot—
Even the ginkgo leaves sink down, fleshy.