He stood before the icons.The room waited.Morning light,thin as dust on glass.The book lay openwhere it always did.Thursday.The cupboard stayed closed.Wax softened under his fingers.The wick bent.Hunger kept its hour.His mind went ahead of him—kettle, keys,a sentence from yesterday.The words came backwithout warmth,set loose by the mouth,by years of saying themwhile thinking elsewhere.His lips moved.His…