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.