One by one my sorrows drift to the cold
kitchen before I'm even aware it's morning—
When I come downstairs, their hands
are wrist-deep in the sink, pale
fingertips tracing the hallmarks on
the dirty undersides of china... If by this
automatic industry they mean there's a beyond
even when you think you've hit bottom, I'll take it.
Since they're a kind of rehearsal for the un-
imaginable, I let them show me how to slice
the bread and boil the eggs, spoon the coffee
beans into the grinder. They lead the way, they
after all lead the way. Eat, they say; and drink.
It will take strength to push us out the door
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
