Cold light on wood, on texture
of blank paper, rough as the mountain
tops of an old gray monk's finger tips.
Black coffee, slow two-stepping itself
too cool to drink
in its antiseptic white ceramic.
Seconds ticking—the distance inside each
one of those foggy mountains, crags in
complete shadow, can't see the summit.
Just two or three
sentences, no more—and nothing was ever
the same after that.
Could just eat.
But then—will only have broken
and still not received what
is needed—or badly
wants to be.