stitches the kitchen table to another fabric of time,
which occurs simultaneously,
such kitchen table I am sitting at with you
more handling cold lingerings from breakfast than eating.
I stare out the window at the sea
and am all too eager to reassure you
when you ask me what's wrong
that nothing is wrong, love,
that I am wondering what life is like at a kitchen table
without you there
that I think it must also be inescapably wonderful
because this kitchen table exists somewhere
connected to all other tables without you
by the tidal light which plays upon it.
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