My head gets shoved deep into the machine.
I come home to a letter from the servants
demanding the very last whisper

you left in my ear; they want to take anything
I don’t want them to. Some August leaves
still on the table right next to the bills.

Those leaves were once open, gasping,
like September had started,
all that red with just a breath of yellow.

They can’t believe they’re not what they were.