Old Mug

To be lifted, you must be held.
You are stubbornly without
a handle, and smooth sides rest
against my morning skin, quiet and warm.

The anticipation

of a moment’s rest from reaching inwards.
There is that morning weight, the taste
of hot and slightly bitter coffee, of waiting
to reach in again, to seek a thread and

tangle it

And I know the knots are tight enough,
the tapestry expanding, if (when I look
upon you later) you are cold but
understanding. Gently, I clean you, promising:

tomorrow.