I hang my thoughts along the curves of a porcelain mug:
diced them into little bullets on a battered cutting board,
dunked them in a lukewarm blend of honey and earl grey.
Tea is liquid calm, cooking is therapeutic, so this should suffice,
I mutter, fragrant thunderheads boiled to life by flashing teaspoons.
They are thirsty and bitter, sliced like a shedding autumn
and swirling leaves in a tumultuous universe. As such,
I gorge on their anger and transfer my matter using heat –
suddenly, we are a flustered universe trying to expand
in a concord skull the size of a grape. I tell them melting is
reincarnation – they use cyclical, fatalistic, cannibalistic.
I just sprinkle fine medicine in the brew and call it a night.