Sine
The jug erect to the left of your elbow tapers towards its bottom
harsh, leaving this obtuse angle where the glaze stopped dripping.
Left its naked milky brown, that receding foot looks flustered
as skin, not at being undressed but rather at the prospect
of always retreating, having to catch the shadow in freefall
loosed by the setting sun. Because of parallax, your forearm
intersects the jug at its neck, casting at the juncture
a shadow of the two riveted, as if you were about to swig
from the fruit your body bore. Trigonometrically, the crossing
point is overdetermined: given the height of the jug
as well as the angle its ankle makes with the falling shadow,
the length of your arm is superfluous. So is the height of the sun.