A seat, a puddle of sunlight
Not much, just a small circle of light that bounds me
And a view
A view of the world outside
As I riffle the pages
That hush upon wild shores
A small cushion, a small plant
because luxury blooms in finite spaces
A small window
That looks upon forgotten trees
While I ride the drowning tides
Swallowed in the salted glory of chapters
Clouds sail in a silent sky
Each complete within itself, needing nothing from me
Or my drenched hunger
Clinging to typeset spars
Here is my ocean
My shining waves
The spangled starfish in the deep word-hoard
Beside a steaming cup of tea.