Heavy Cream

In hot water,

into the grind,

the grounds

of black semantic

overture.

 

Simple strain,

drips, rip, tip

my conscience

awake,

then steal time

 

to brim the rim.

Steam lifting,

Cream diving,

touch bottom,

to rise as a dream,

 

spreading like an

early morning kiss

of fog, dulling the

pain, easing

the tension

 

between the dark

night

and singed

light.

A sip of silence.

White Ceramic Cup