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The Imprint of September Second
Second of September, I ate the last berry of summer, the sun still dreaming it's July twenty-first, the blackberry bush stiffened by heat, losing suppleness, the berry hard as corn, the seeds living in wisdom teeth that afternoon, me glancing at the scene glancing back at me, red leaves against a hard green grass, not possible, alarms of firewood and snow tires the second of September, no, green leaves against the red barn door, the slots between the leaves also leaf-like, imprinting the air with maple and oak shapes, as my breath when I napped, the book also sleeping, its tired spine almost breaking on my chest, the two of us breathing, not us our shadows convincing two sewing needles to land, joined face to tail for now, tandem and fleeting, twin knife blades cast across our open chests.