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.


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.