How the season surrounds us and mistakes
itself for some other force,
while we may be left wondering:
What was she doing
with our bolt of wishes?
Reverberants
through the ground with the spoils
of acorn, gourd.
One life
inverted into a swollen detail,
until what we wished for squeaked
half-liquid and ripe
under our breastbones,
turning us pliant to one world in another world,
the point of falling, of leave-taking,
abrupt processions
wind-shuffled and splitting.
Like fire and time, it must be stolen
while falling.
What's fallen is anyone's.
What comes through air to ground.
Just that much space.
A short dive.
Think how easy it would be to ruin our lives.