The tea cup has broken
in the shape of your lip –
the way people break
when nudged by grief.
The ink has spilled near the pocket
in the shape of a territory –
the stain stays –
the way an occupier does.
The paperback has dog eared
around the edges –
the way Time arrives
as a wave.
The mirror has splintered
into fragments –
the way autumnal leaves crunch
when stepped over.
The door has been smeared
around the handle –
the way dark circles encamp
under the eyes.
The face has cultivated
pimples overnight –
the way poems arrive
in the midst of a crowd –
unrhymed.