If a scalpel is pressed just so — at the tendon’s grip
of bone, or between the fascia’s papery webs,
the integrity of a joint or cavity gives way.
The form is released to slide like leaves swept skyward,
carried off stem over blade, tumbled by windy tongues
into an endless maw.
Still, the day brightens around us, inviting us to fall up
into the brilliant throat of something new
where the light brims at the lip of a deeply rooted bowl,
and that which holds all things together
with every sinewy leaf we let go.