what sense in the day after

under black clouds’
    heavy footsteps

or the art of
    resetting this table

I place you here me there I place
your hands outside your coat in the middle of reach
and the wild roses have already turned
their faces toward autumn the gasping grass
bent in anticipation of November night

there is no novelty to August
    although we imagine it

in the way rain clings to horizon’s lip
    as moist as birth

did you gather yesterday’s children

they’re scattered across the field
    those rising breaths

balloons from our strip on life