In the middle of September, after everything
we loved had ended, the day remained 

a sound pronounced among
emergencies. It was almost 

beautiful. A scrawl of voices shook an opposition
through the trees and I believed them. 

Among the black metallic structure
of a language, imperfect

in the present tense, 
I called to you

across the open grove 
and listened. Terror-struck and tethered 

to each other, we lived and breathed and were surrounded
by our speaking. The leaves descended
like the inconsistent weather of the law. Our voices 
carried them. Ungoverernable, the sun, the sun, the sun