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Coffee Monologue

It was beautiful to awake
and look through your eyes,
to pour from my narrow home,
the coffee mug,
and be absorbed in the wider home
of your body,
to see myself transfigured, honeyed
with the morning sun,
participating in the love of a couple
walking by in the alleyway,
participating in your movements,
watering of all the garden’s exuberance.

Part of me still half-remains
in the mug, like a friend
of few experiences listening
to a well-travelled and seasoned friend.
I speak to myself still in the mug,
speak of my experiences
coloured, amplified in human memory,
of travels overseas, in Europe and Asia,
and my confined self
gets a descriptive taste
of wider homes and horizons,
and telepathically
passes on the news to its brethren
still stirring on the trees,
all my brethren still brewing
on the stoves of a thousand homes
boiling with anticipation of their own.

I delight in the vast-countryside-movement
of your body entering
the bedroom with the black mug,
a black fan still in motion.
I love the circular half-hollow of the mug
which fosters, furthers
fresh and invigorating thought,
and I love the cool air
which a still and constantly moving
black circle provides.
I love us three, the three black brethren
as mostly empty space
loves its manifested diversity.

Outside on the backyard fence
a crow caws
and spreads its wings

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