SEPTEMBER

                              The sky settled.                             A wet stone. I played

                  with addition: the felt tip                                of grass

                                     and current dew.

            The lamplight                                                 and the house finch

                         fumbling its song.                                            Open hands

                                                                              and the notion

                  of breathing. It all added up                           to an empty room.

                                    I was once                               a list of fruit.

                              A truthful day.

                                                I was in love                    with look:

                  this branch is so.                                                   The leaves

                                                                                    of.

                                    Oh. My favorite.                                 The way rain

                         gathers itself

into a gazing ball. Then the swollen light.

Give me a tool to dissect the sky

without leaving it vacant. Give me

a rational number to explain the smallest tip

of the smallest wing.

Give me one word

to describe a stone:

NOVEMBER

The sky opened up. Showed its teeth. Here,

your mouth. Here, a ream

of cells. A spool of breath

on my cheek.

In moments, the body renews like the rabbits

come spring.

We give snow —its utterance

like breathing—children’s names: pirouette

and stone fruit.

Precious thorn or

the sky slowed. I don’t know how.

The clouds once moved like a bull.

They couldn’t be stopped.

I touch you amid the pitch

and that cannot be changed.

I touch you

and I am changed into a linen

ready to be cut and sewn. A brow slackened

with sleep. The silver sky

burnished with a sun I know waits

to return. Your coat

quiet on the rack.

Heath Joseph Wooten (he/him) is an object in Northern Michigan, where he sells liquor and writes poems. He edits for Passages North and Hominum Journal, and he received his MFA in poetry from Northern Michigan University. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets. You can find his work in Thrush Poetry Journal, BTWN Magazine, and elsewhere. X: @edgy2003blond