by Rowan Tate
Fog slips its milk
through the hinge of morning—
that narrow hour
when nothing has quite begun.
Streetlights still lit,
unnecessary, left propped up
like hands raised
after the question’s been answered.
The kitchen kettle hisses
its small argument. This hinge of quiet:
bread thawing
on the counter, day pools,
the butter softens.
The knives rest cold in their drawer.
I sip what’s warm
and wait to be opened.