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.