The book is made of glass and I look 
through it and see more books. 

Many glass books.

Is someone speaking?

     A muffled voice is telling me 
to make soup which I think 
means I am loved. 

What other kind of cup 
fills itself? 

Can there be a cup of cup?

A cup of itself?

Outside a black squirrel has wiggled 
to the end 
of a very skinny branch. 

When the squirrel breathes
the whole tree shakes,

as if the squirrel were the soul
of the tree.

Have you ever felt like 
such a tree?

Not sayin’ 
I have.

Copyright © 2014 by Joanna Fuhrman. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on February 21, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.