And so, the autumn leaves invite this water.
They move as they should, in an irreversible intake of breath.
How simply the living pores invite sound in a leaf becoming;
simply, the music rises again and not from any ceasing, but from origin.
To begin again without recollection, to fountain.
Again, breath implores for crevices in which to nurture its making
in a sea becoming.
Yet, more often, one practices the fastening of points to lines, lines to planes
to the soma and crest of this song
as though the tongue neatly bore into itself, bore itself
as though the fingers, love children, broke into the body full of moons