September’s breath came knocking
On summer’s fallen elder—this
An unburdened log, where I knelt
in space between tree rings; those
Memories of year: a holding ground
For lost souls to collect, consume
And listen. As wandering spores
Amass gone-away things
Found again, only in harkened
Softness, in decay—and I
Could chew the fleshy aftertaste
Of death: of thoughts of thoughts
Of thoughts—deciduous digestion
Pitted, gnawed upon, and spit
Like toughened tongues roll
Apricots against our aging cheeks
Soaked in sweetened womb and
Wonder, decomposition’s best
Attempt at drawing lines between
Forest and floor. What is below
Our feet? But knowing when to
Look, bow down, and swallow.
