Ledger

Let’s more than be
good company for ourselves—

I like a quiet cup
chipped near the rim

to set on the sill
where paint has flaked

off the trim— Here
is onset of rain

and evening, dim gold of tea
bleached out of a loose

handful of leaves. Moths
batten against the screen,

lighter than paper,
flimsy as hello, goodbye—

space fills and fills
with what accrues:

nothing’s lost
or sold. Everything’s

still here; every mote
is inventory.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Drinking Alone.

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