Friday, September 21, 2012

four dollar twenty-five

Weeks of Chelsea morning
bitter cold beckons
my land, in my mind
my alter twin, in your still-waters
as you assumed to fill icy cubes in my latte
when deep down I want you to be plain black 
you assumed my great wall of icy cubes 
stained with yellowed nicotine
or your caffeine

in trivially sublime Chelsea mornings
quiet bellow at condensating ends
to windy second chance

my land, still in my mind
I am in your morning once more
with those frothing emptiness again
this time I emptied it myself
and assumed you will stay and say
"four dollar twenty-five"
breathed in Wallace Stevens' phrase