Now, even from this distance, you notice

too many espresso cups scattered

across the axes of your life. That is

why bits of unmatched self get shattered
and overlayed in places like this. You

try to count the connections, café number

like a Trinitarian warning right next to

its half-filled bottle. The spirit will clamber
through the window someday, but

you’ll miss it if your eyes are always

covered by the frame’s black line. Shut

in like that you’ll still notice red doorways
which bleed redemption into everything,

the shade of grace which forces you to sing.


Notes:

In response to an unpublished image, Untitled, by Tony Curran.