Starbucks on Sundays
To drink adjectives
As though they are shot with espresso…
Slick, tin chair.
snipped pathways, whipped Chai.
Skinny cinnamon sticks twirls to fine, misty powder,
rolls off flexing mugs, stiff muscles.
Adjectives weave paths, like prayers,
through glossy laptop keys and matted lips
Releasing as balloons,
colored and hollow, firm like stones
cast to witness
Sunday morning prayers must pour like cold, black coffee into your cup
While you offer the sugar of a Morning Glory
the sun as a stove
a cup of rain
to quench our thirst.
Inspired by “At Burt Lake” by Tom Andrews:
At Burt Lake
To disappear into the right words
and to be their meanings…
Pink scraps of clouds, a plum-colored sky.
The sycamore tree spills a few leaves.
The cold focuses like a lens…
Now night falls, its hair
caught in the lake’s eye.
Such clarity of things. Already
I’ve said too much…
language must happen to you
the way this black pane of water,
chipped and blistered with stars,
happens to me.