In that soft lavish
instant
between my judicious
ginger pouring
and the slow dilation—of warm
white milk—it unfurls;
the sheer comfort
that comes
from admitting—
that coherence
is simply—a compliment
I keep
discharging neatly
into certain little discrete
ideas I rather
like together—such as
morning
coffee—heaps of black
tea once it
hits twelve noon—and of course
something
or other
decaf—every single night.
