Saturday, March 23, 2019

coffee rituals I

Carefully scrape four teaspoons,
Measured more by instinct than by volume.

The rose in the wine glass is still living,
The blue sky from the window well boils and roils
White clouds racing across.

The boiling water,
poured over waiting grounds,
bubbles up its glass case into churning chocolate foam.

Several Hail Mary’s
Or deep breaths later,

The heel of your palm on the pressurized seize
compresses the swirling grounds,
Grounds and liquid,
wheat and chaff,
inedible solid from what can be imbibed.

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