“A 12 line poem with four three line stanzas, unrhymed, in the style of John Ashbury's works in The Double Dream of Spring”

How sudden the light shifts, not entering,  
But standing apart, a messenger of windows—  
A pale half-moon reclined on the kitchen sill.  

Someone, or no one, has forgotten the reason  
For the orchestration of cups and books,  
And the door knows more than it lets on.  

These clumsy hours invent their own language:  
Clock hands tapping at the meanings beneath,  
While each silence sketches memories in graphite.  

You add sugar to your tea, watching it dissolve—  
Every grain another brief possibility,  
Passing into clarity no longer yours, or mine.

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