Visitation slips into occupancy. A dry summer invests in yellow as
a small protest—a ringing without the bell.

On my forearm yellow appears as a slight contusion beginning to
heal. There’s no gentle way to move through the landscape.

Trees maintain their ongoing edits. Deciduous is a slow decision.

Say something green and it comes back lutescent. We can hear
when we’re hollow. The cradle is stowed for another season.

We slide into this bright geometry where the sun is crooked and
ruinous.