by DS Maolalai

and the sun
comes at an angle,
to catch
the risen steam
of kitchen cookery;
not quite boiling
but visible
if you look. I look,
typing at the table
and get up, reminded
to stir. I love it,
the quiet of this time
like a forest, six
fifty four
pm, textured
with soft bubbling
and a quality
of sunlight – how it slants
in beams
of shining steam
and dust floating
and the rest of the room
so gloomy.