Cardioid of light on the surface
of my morning coffee, two curves
formed by the shape of the mug
I hold in my hands, light also and
intersecting, fingers clasped.
I see them framed softly—sunlight
from the window falls as a quadri-
lateral splayed across the floor and
walls—the room’s geometry is
illuminated in fragments, material
warmed, then returned to equilibrium,
each shaft a document of time as
morning passes and light finishes
its wide arc inside. I am a greenhouse
or I wish I was, I sunburn too easily
sitting here, attempting half-lotus, writing
to maintain the impression. Borderlines
harden, then dissipate; the quadrilateral’s
interior angles approach ninety degrees,
no longer splayed, perfect and quivering.
The sun rises constantly. I am present and
feeling without interruption: a shape expanding,
falling on every surface. My breath is
a metronome, for an instant aligned like
the meeting of two rivers, each winding
and separate, one inside, one out:
two gradients with a confluence
at 9:30 am, sipping
as slowly as possible,
before the coffee goes cold.