If the self does not exist alone,
if parts of any matter function only in relation to a whole,
if I embrace this reason,
    and  see the hand-painted Italian cup
        full to the swell of its brim,
    the weight of its junket,
        permutation from clay of the earth,
    swirls of ochre and salmon in my palms, marks 
        of temperament, not mere conventions
    of cultural aesthetic, but the emotional flavor
        in one painter’s household
            one morning
if the warmth and scent of the cup stirs me 
    so all the cups I’ve held appear on tablecloths
        that say bon apetit or nothing,
    finely crocheted Russian lace with irridescent
        wine stains, and rings of café tables,
    blue to-go cups from delis in the city
        I carry in the streets,
    maroon saucers of farm scenes,
        a boy with light hair
            leading a cow out of a barn --
do I draw a likeness between who I am
    today at breakfast, slinky worms channeling the soil
        of my potted portulaca,
    and the way the painter’s wife looked past him,
        that one morning before work,
            perhaps with rage or awe?