Unearthly flickers, like steam snaking
off the cup, new words stretch
their dancers’ legs, impossible
angles all fluid yet geometric, as a horse
in the first stretch around the fogbound track.
All the way up to the balcony, ideas
limber up the way I once heard arias
rising from the steaming espresso machines
as they wheezed into production at seven,
when even the campanile hadn’t yet penetrated
the haze. Morning thought
hasn’t fully emerged, world compressed
in the unsaid machinery of so many cold
parts poking into word, stretching
toward the top note and you,
from the balcony, steam away
and around the first lap.
Visit https://racheldacus.net for more information and writing by Rachel Dacus.