by Glenn Cassidy
My coffee is cloudless, ink black,
no sugary snowfall, no apparitions
floating in a tumult of cream.
No sudden levitation of coffees past,
no yearning after a splinter of memory,
selective, prone to bias in its recollection
of bitter or sweet or otherworldly.
No symbol of the coming day,
no metaphor. Pungent sips,
leafing the morning news.
-refers from the word “coffee” in Carolee Sherwood’s poem After we kissed for the first time