I sat with two empty cups
on the small white table.
One was called yours.
The other
had no name.

Yours, I placed
the way you last left.
Perhaps it memorizes the silence.
The air kept your absence close.
Dust was putting on its weight.

The other I eventually filled
with morning light from the window,
then poured it onto the table
to see
what would be coming.

It ran,
found the pale veins of the wood,
sank into the seams of the surface,
would not stay
the shape of a cup.

All afternoon,
something in the room was happening.

Light from the cup kept moving
on the wall, the ceiling.
Greens were peeking their heads out
from their pots.
The pencil shortened itself
one by one
against my hand.

By evening
the light from the other cup
was

everywhere.