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.
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