Each Vertebra Alone
August arrived yesterday. Tractors breaking
summer from the stems. Now envelopes sail
shadows of a woman’s fingers
collecting like distance in old
metal bins. Behind each stamp: dust,
mustang hooves, sex where the tongue
lingered. Outside, chaff and black wings
circle the hours. A sparrow fallen into stubble
unweaves. She bags and tags
the outgoing mail. Moored to its pole,
the flag gathers color as if to stop
the beetles dismantling the flight-broken bird, as if
to ride her hands’ dark wind.