Ink Descions

Black works best,

the other pens are in a slow

toward the edge of a newly varnished table.

I can barely make out my reflection in the dark oak,

a slight measure of the  sound

I wish I was awakening to.


What To Do When The Glass is Torn

The forks and knives

still reflect the empty porcelain plate.

The flame has closed, and

the faucet no longer

keeps track of the seconds.

The carton of eggs has already shed

each empty shell.


The still breaks its promise and rises,

the rays swirling around each wind chime.

The coffee will still brew.