I nod in company, I wake at night
Nothing fancy place,
long, a raw process I never knew respiration to be,
an ore of air, & things meant to stack,
yellow plates. brown chairs
& then one teacup-
someone couldn’t finish it. someone couldn’t take it away,
that’s what lingering things do,
retain a meaning heavier than even whales in their natural
habitat. the viscous joy of
explosion at 10.
The way they count at space launches
as if orbits are a planetary choice, in light
the cup tapestries a conversation around it-
blue whales in brown chairs
their share of sea.
minus one. minus two.
10, & then