You stir this soup as if each finger
is warmed by the breeze
though your eyes close when salt is added

-small stones could bring it to life
overflow with branches , berries, wings
shimmering and far away dissolve

into a sea that has no word
for sitting at a table, naked
waiting for you to turn on the light

wrap your arms around a bowl
that's empty, a night no longer sure
it's the rim you're holding on to

that's circling a man eating alone
who can't see, hears only the waves
becoming lips, colder and colder.