Black Sun Espresso

It is

the hour of the small,

white chalice, The hour when the lengthening shade of the house leans

toward the soul.

Behold: the scorched bean,

the nocturnal seed of the abyss,

Has surrendered its ghost to the iron heart of the furnace.

Under the terrible weight of a thousand sighs— This pressure of years,

this silver breath of the machine— The essence is wept into the

light. See how it descends,

a viscous ribbon of ancient time,

Oh, brief and burning truth!

A black sun held

between the thumb and the finger,

Disappearing before the steam can tell its

tale,

Leaving only the scent of a burnt kingdom And the long,

clear silence of the afternoon.

Darker than the memory of a king,

Yet crowned with a veil of ephemeral gold,

A crema like the dust of a star that died before our

birth.

Is it a drink,

or a prayer in the language of soot?

I hold this tiny vessel of solitude against the cold.

It is the bitter syrup of the earth’s own wakefulness,

A concentrated lightning that does not strike,

but infuses The tired blood with the phantom of a lost vitality.

One sip: and the fog

of the hallway recedes,

The forgotten names of childhood stir in the dregs,

And for a fleeting moment,

the heart is a clock That beats in time with

the primordial furnace.

Oh, brief

and burning truth! A black sun held between the thumb and the

finger, Disappearing before the

steam can tell its tale,

Leaving

only the scent of a burnt kingdom And the long,

clear silence of the

afternoon.