8.14.11, 8:34 am
There is no hiding here.
White porcelain, steam, the inevitable drip and spill over the edge of it.
Somewhere they are swimming past objects of ocean and shell—
there is a shore too, and faces beyond the fog,
This is the first morning.
I am sorry.
Off the coast the breeze (dried leaves
of late summer caught in the current there)
is nothing if not a sighing, faint
moisture in exhalation, the sometime
openness of a world arrested in its giving, its
bounty of sadnesses. You know—you begin,
a sounding of water lapping on
the sand and stone—I think we’re doing okay. I really
think we’re going to be just fine. No need
to respond, just finish your cup
and make your way home.