The washing line reflected
in my coffee, moves,
a ripple of white,
like a hospital monitor
measuring the heartbeat
of the wind.

I can see physics in it.
The clouds turn in it.

Other times it's calmer,
and the sun skips within
each undulation
like a child.

As the coffee level lowers
it changes, curving
into the side of the cup,
pumping frantically.
At the bottom it shivers gently
and disappears.