In Lassitude
And then you’re banging your knee
against the hardwood desk
tapping your fingers off beat
the way parishioners clap out of time
in some churches—just watching
this tempo picks up and you
use your knuckles and elbows on the knickknacks
scattered around you—still keeping
a close eye on the cream lightened coffee
cooling down all at once as it displaces
in the manner you fold linen—bringing the corners
together and yet introverting
as only a thing that is not solid can—breaking
to lift the yellow mug and sip
then placing it back on the desk to discover
movements no longer shift its meniscus
and your part in this now anomaly is called
into question.
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