by Beau Peregoy
My own cheekbone against my own forearm
hurts, but it is how usually collapse.
It is so July right now. I would change that
for a thing. For any autumn.
Any autumn is a hymn that walks
down your neck and your upper-back
(which is why they call it fall).
Fall does the collapsing for me, so I can
watch, and my cheekbone can rest. And
I can lead with my forehead in a breeze
instead of sweltered collar bones,
that although symmetrical, are mostly dull
and hollow. Poorly placed nerve endings.
July is running out of images for me
to chew on, scoff at. So wouldn’t it be nice
if some tree died here and made it fall.
Heavy starched leaves end like
a jar falling off a cellar shelf. I want.