I take my coffee black, like my poems.
I want them to be maddening, full of passion and grace,
whirlwinds of stardust and disintegrating dinosaur bones.
But every once in awhile I like to add cream to my coffee,
and the light will be let in.
It streams through my poems in waves,
nestling into every syllable and consonant.
They become luminous, glowing, ethereal.
They shine brighter than the moon.
And sometimes I take my coffee with sugar,
and my poems turn bittersweet and full of nostalgia.
When I slide into bed at night
they want me to hold them in my arms like a lover
til their confused hearts become still again.