Teacup

Being infinite, good as,
The cosmos is just as deep
Wherever you are on Earth,

Earth’s range so constrained
It makes parallax
Barely viable,

So there’s not one speck,
However pretty,
Dynamic, war-torn

Or dull, that’s better
For a perspective.
You’re universal

Wherever you are,
The particulars
Of your life the keys

To all the big doors.
Just ask Emily
Dickinson, Alice

Munro. The vortex
That swirls in your tea
Can be as focused

As you please—nothing
But the bric-a-brac
Of what’s going on

In thoughts entangled
With outside and in
Is enough to cast

A giant sculpture,
Tapestries of art.
The tempest lived here.