14
So what if it all comes to ruin? Soft brown tunnel
that soon collapses in on itself, starred end
of fruit which a fly has found and lit on in the basket;
plastic vent that crumbles in our hands, dull grey
wafer we pry loose from the wall with a Stanley
screwdriver. On loamy soil, a post that’s loosened
its grip on a rusted joint. Despite the early dark,
the rapid slide toward winter— in the air, sketched
tapestries of musk heaviest over a compost pit. All the notes
we wanted and gathered: how we change them with heat,
how ravenously we eat, sometimes standing at the counter,
fingers pulling flesh away from bone as soon as their char
leaves the skillet’s hot metal. Ripe bodies, sweet morsels; salt
keeps certain things longer. Headlong’s for everything else.