I settle at my spot, ready to order.
The window blinds rustle slightly,
my mind is scattered in fragments,
A sudden thought, Giacometti's
sculpture is movement and stillness both,
though all things move.
I find Burton's Arabian Nights,
in a second hand bookstore.
A thousand to one, destined appointment.
All is quiet the children are at school.
One regret,
I never mastered Latin, or Greek.
I'm left with clay, wax, hunks of space,
defining stuff, stuff for outlining.
Color are shapes
are cups of tea or coffee
And the discipline of fasting,
bits of code . .
I read the menu in tears,
Sailing through
a sea of words.
