some mysteries

the thick red-marker line

under the dial on your veteran oven

you drew when you moved in

to restore the measures that wore away

 

"it's around 350?"

you cook imprecisely, unruffled by its width.

you have a reference point

and that's enough

 

the arrow etched

on the lid on my stainless French press

etched so finely,

it vanishes utterly

in most light

 

the muted delight

of spinning the lid

of tilting my head

before i can pour out one of my few rituals,

this mystery i'll keep