It is one of the days that I sit

here like an abyss. 
The sky, soft and introspective, my mind

opens a gap that opens

another gap
that is not simply air, but a circling coolness when shame

jars the air. She doesn’t blame.

She sits at an edge that polishes 
lights. Much white.

She grabs two eggs, crushes one, drops

the other, saying:
“to be exposed is to be real.”

I tell her that I really miss him.

A sight jumps to another sight in the mirror,
with a flick of impromptu

wantonness.

She presses the button, and now in the blender 
the whole morning is wrung. Force,

akin to clouds, giant and mesmerizing. It invents

trajectories, and precipitates nothing
but itself. “Hear an egret?” Where?

“It screams but you can’t see—” 
That warp of milk, a nebulous vertigo.

Finality, serene after the last squawk, checking

each feather of the egret. 
The ending, turned inside out,

smooth and silky. I dare not climb

over it.