An old shaving mug full of upturned pencils.
A face, in the glass, through the storm.
The sharpest lead to sketch the restless maple.
The softest bed, the oldest rug, the place you’re born.
Long last, first life, lost love, gentle touch.
Know not, present best, carry on.
The flattest, for the mold, rich, ground.
The breath, the itch, the scratch, the hair, the arm.
Moist, in the eye, most, blessed, crown.
Now, the tune, the tone, the talk, the song.
Slippers, socks, figures, clocks, little glass bells.
Something, stops, a rooster, crows.