This cup grows old while the table

by Simon Perchik

This cup grows old while the table
overflows, wobbles then lists
–for a long time now the watermarks

smell from smoke as the dim light
from wood hour after hour
shedding its colors though the chair

pulls you closer, smoothing the way
through daydreams and the mist
that quiets its makeshift sea

empties the Earth with your mouth
kept wet to let in the waves
that once had it all, were walls

for a room now fallen on its back
though your arms ache from lifting
over and over forgetting where.