He awakes each day
to eggs, coffee
the lack of being seen by another
and what makes the line of sight
define our boundary of kindness.
A sermon of poplars.
Finger-taps on the pulpit of wood
echoing through the sanctuary
of morning. Holy and alone.
The many winds turning
dried leaves against the window.
The window and the leaves.
The cracked shells and coffee grounds
each day turned into heap
steadily, glory and decay.
Nathan Lipps lives in Binghamton, New York, where is he is currently a PhD candidate and teaches creative writing. His work has been published in the Best New Poets of 2017, BOAAT, Colorado Review, Third Coast, Typo, and elsewhere.