I

The bellow of a jet’s engine – that noise
        to me is like nothing else. From way
                out there you heard the hooves
from Beckett’s Embers. It swells and boils
        now as it did then that windless, cloudless day.
                The kettle is filled and I, unmoved,

am waiting for it. Coffee grounds
        form their own archipelagos (coved
                maybe). On the countertop’s faux-marble, streaks of grey
are the currents I trace daily, the same bounds
                        I hope will prove.


                               II

I hope to prove these patterns
        are not the greatest tragedy. It’s in the corner
                beneath the boiler set on eco-mode –
...