Cut it off. Watch it twitch.
Carry with you that plumb heart.
Trace the constellation with a narrow thumb.
Can life skim the black of summer?
Not a thing ever said
or done or created has captured
such a sacrifice— the windows
rattle, the river bursts, the winds gush
the guts of home. A drive from
here into the remains of a season.
Allow the orchid of the plumb her last
vapid beat. The hint: a state of grace.
Emerge towards the skin of autumn;
slip your sandals in the grass.