It’s in those yellows and blues,
in the precision and balance
and the ether of the composition.

In the foot warmer on the floor
and the brass container on the wall.

The darkness of the jug
from which the milkmaid pours the milk
in a silvered thread
emerging from shadow,

that imperfect zero,
a void folding into itself.

A small act mirroring the cosmos,
like something refusing to vanish.