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 

grows stronger 

with every sinewy leaf we let go.

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