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