I shake the can
and pour rich beans
into the blades,
whirring into pieces
the love
which overflows for you.
Pulsing and spitting
it makes fragments to
boil,
to filter,
to concentrate.
Each brew is darker,
more bitter than the last.
Each cup percolating
that much longer,
my overflow
and extra,
grounds spilt
on the formica.
My shaking hands
still asleep,
they know how I ache
with you, how I am grinding my
own bones for you.
Simmering down,
dripping through
each paper filter,
a skin thicker than the last.
But the can is always
mostly full for you.
Coffee like blood and bones
each morning I stir
up my long love and lost
need for you,
brewing the cups down
again and again.
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