As in, the first leaves slouching against pavement. A river carving rock. A slant, a slope. As in, the quiet of rain crouching in the rafters—a steady surrendering to gravity. In the legends, they say Rome: a dissolution, an ending. Here, I peel back smaller wounds—a yielding to that predator I’d name temptation—to steep my body at dusk in this small hurt, this oxidation of a memory of a memory. This indulgent loss of balance.
As in, fell in love. Fell short. Fell apart. To be clinical: a decrease in magnitude. As in, these mosses and moths coaxing my fingers colder, the numb lodging of night near. That which we do not see—time an acrobat tripping through the cracks. As in, head over heels. As in, falling action: concrete hurtling up to meet your paper-mâché hands. As in, asleep.