When considering its cooling,
Looks like the curve of the bowl
You’ve placed it in,
Or the underside of an exposed breast;
A cold equation of sorrow,
Vaguely tomato based;
The clocks tick as your eyes
Congeal in reflection
At the surface.

You find that every second
Is equal to a degree;
The shallow spoon of your life
Disturbing what calm and warmth
There is left.

The length of a cigarette as a function of time
Is a downward slope you’ve
Placed yourself upon–
Concerned with your dependence
On the things which fill the
Axis of your existing:
Distances traveled,
Glasses emptied,
Hours spent in daylight or
In darkness.

All of these marked as a clear
Line in the scatter.

Your best fit in the chaos of the world.