One vitamin and a cup of coffee,
this nutriment of sustenance, this source
or morpheme. Here, the tooth my neighbor pulled
loose at six years old, the chord of my cries
for such a tiny loss, the pit a small pothole,
my tongue’s fixation before its affinity
for other mouths, ideas, this lira,
that cross between barbs. It was easier
then standing upright, feet planted, reverse
handstand, when I believed my right arm East,
my left an extension of West, the room
I was born in, womb I was sown into,
strange extirpation, not the sand’s struggle
to hold down anchor. Or is it fortune,
first limit, first compass, this single cup?
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