My buddy Pat has that 

enamel mug 

from his railway days 

he still carries 

for some coffee and eggs. 

I lean against my knees 

grin, "A train-track cowboy." 

The morning ambles past 

our flesh sorted inside our shades. 

I admire the thin azure line 

throbbing around the mug's mouth 

as if it knows the secret  

shall be spilled in spite of its vigilance.  

Here all roving begins to form  

and surrenders to the formlessness. 

We lie supine. The sky claws us blind. 

Earth and dirt buzz like utility lines.