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.

Moments before

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.

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