This is where most fall, cool, feathered
like haze from a half-slit window—
This is where slow comes down
in the morning, an almost full
notion of being, (that is to say
elegantly human; open & closed.)
Push open the rhythm of no
I’ll find blue-black in your falling crevice
Push open the sound of water’s flow
on Mars, rising like dust
on your palm in the afternoon.