At last, the mouth opens.
The afternoon steps out.
With it, a ferry, the passage of time.
With it, a turnstile that cannot be unstuck.
There is material in all this atmosphere.
It is almost apologetic. It almost knows.

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Where it comes from. The mouth coughs up.
Another mouth. And another. And another.
The afternoons cannot tell themselves.
Apart. The apology attaches to a noun.
It wants to occupy space.
It wants to come back.