Gazing down long
at an empty home-
made mauve mug,
its enameled clay speckled
like so many nameless
galaxies smudged across
the Hubble Deep Field,
its shadow-
black mouth, like
god's, not talking but still
piercing my
guts with pure significance—
all those lofted
thoughts of yours,
where have they
brought you?
fierce-postured, on a low stoop
of warped rotting
wood in the morning, contemplating another
cup of coffee.
