in August’s dusk,
summer’s constriction
lapses.
someone loosened the cinch.
maybe it was the stretch of evening.
maybe it was the cicadas’ will.
here is a new way, a loophole in death’s gravity.
here is a pastel green forest of streetlamps.
here is a bronze installation of white ash.
here in the seasons’ margins,
someone left a circular note.
maybe it was the birch’s decision to peel.
recall the circumstances: they encompass
everything and nothing; i affix these
two wheels to my frame, and i slip away.