Now

A count of every thread in every robe
and all the atoms forming needlepoints
that stitch the garments strewn around the globe
could never match the sum of lines and joints—
the birth and death of animals and plants,
the oceans seeds and germs and words have crossed,
the times a millimeter’s width of chance
resulted in a species saved or lost—
required to put espresso brewed at nine
inside a coffee cup in west Japan
and serve it several meters from a shrine
that’s pondered by an English-speaking man.

Paul Burgess
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Paul Burgess would like to hear them.