THIS

It begins with little more than the turning

of a page, noticing the fridge humming,

a flower in a glass, a ball of loose string

on the sill, the drip of a tap left running.

This sudden awareness of empty space deeper than the sky in the back window.

A single day, a measurement like flour

in bushels. Or cups. Something that we know

is there, if we are. Hour by hour

falling through our hands, sifted through the clock.

This waiting. This need to turn the kettle off

and on. To butter bread. To flick a switch. To talk.

SG McInerney