Thursday, November 6, 2014

BLACK MASS

First—you need
coffee—
steam-
sighing quick but 

discreetly from smart 
white cups
of 
baked earth enameled,

which sit nested
cleanly—on equally
simple but
pretty glossed saucers

atop blank public counters,
perfectly level—
that blush at intervals 
according

to the equally spaced soft and and slow-
wheeling purr and shimmer—
of several canny overhead
ceiling fan/Edison 
lightbulb combination fixtures,

which background
adroitly and with 
good mercy—the morning's manageable smatter 
of sallow discolored faces 
of customers;

then—after

that—you can 
finally 
write 

something 
clever.

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