a spoon lies on its side,
warm from its bath,
well,
before
a day that is
a crowded drawer.
it is a spoon’s sunrise,
warmth in its belly,
awake,
a gleam
that knows
its origins.
a spoon’s length,
warmed in its veins,
breathes,
a brushstroke
of breath
made visible.
a spoon turns
for the moment,
seeing,
an eye
in a water drop,
of a round world.
spoon on my palm,
its own balance,
its ease is
an even stream
of water
where i live.
