#3

In media res, the morning, before, begins. Cups of coffee - again, again - that steam from table tops, from fronts of shelves, or hands (my own, another's). And the light that falls falsely. Through what? A tiny square of glass, dissimulating springtime. And the steam that catches it, and corruscates, and incants in silent, early tones.

Or start perhaps in darkness. That bed, floor-ridden, where he turned. As I crept, seconds early to the clock. Keep silence, keep silent. Though winter does its worst to windows drafty.