A bitter tear of coffee
clings for a moment,
hesitates suspended.
A drop of dew on the
curved stalk of my
spine falls
murky sap on the snow of
a rune heavy page.
A heart-shaped stain
contemplated
like a cast of bones—
Vertebrae dice, tumbled
from a witch doctor's hand.
So much depends upon
this single drop of dark roast.
Magic is still to be found
under these halogen lights
and atop these tables painted with
improbable angels.
Mystery is swept up off this floor
each midnight
by a clerk that sighs in distracted,
profound, ecstatic boredom.
Ribbons of pastel in the
walls bear the incense tang
of rituals worked here.
The naked passion of new
lovers still begins with fingers
warmed together around porcelain.
Campfires burn warm in this cave
and weary travelers still seek its light
One wary eye on the ebony lurking without,
the other eye seeking meaning
in the ebony that lurks within.
The shaman sees
what is hidden
comforts
all weary travelers
Tonight it is my turn to stand
guard while others find solace.
So long as this pen lasts I'll write
the dancing lights, alert for tigers.
Then conjure in a third cup.
Enough to see the tribe through
till morning.
YOU ARE READING
Selections From: The White Porcelain Well
PoetryPoems, East Village, New York City. The White Porcelain Well evokes both the inner and outer landscapes of New York City's gay village. Written mostly in coffee houses and all-night diners over the course of several years, these poems attempt to ca...
