505

What rampant possibility

in waking before the sun—

potentiality transpires in mornings dark.

Life stirs up his mysteries

with a lapis-colored spoon.

Evening slinks into the park.

And humans sleep in coffins fleeting

until the light resuscitates them,

but I drink the cold blues

in a coffee cup for two.

Life smiles,

I add no cream—black as souls

they swirl and stream;

We're thrumming—sunrise is drumming

as we taste them.