Talking with Ian in House no. 9
What’s this spinning lightly
Across the floor — it is
a ribbon, from the sun’s lazy arm/
it skids across our cups of tea
black, loose leaf, no milk for me.
I watched his socked feet pause
with a slow, slight, searing grace
before the kettle
heel. ball. heel. ball, tired:
from our trawl
through ten thousand days.