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A tear of bitter coffee
clings for a moment
on my moustache
hesitates suspended
a drop of dew on the
curved stalk of my spine
falls as murky sap
onto the winter white snow
of my hen scratched page
A journey from
Peruvian fields to
Midwest roast and grind
here to a Montreal
November night ends
as a heart-shaped stain
that I contemplate
like a cast of the bones
vertebrae dice
shaken and tumbled
from the shaman's hand So much weight carried
in a single drop of dark roast But if ancient witches could scry
their arts in a sooty mirror
so much more should we
urban shamans
look to what is found
in this white porcelain
well of the soul 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
at 3:00 am every morning
by a clerk that sighs in
ecstatic distracted
profound boredom
and ribbons of pastel in the
walls still bear the incense tang
of the rituals worked here New lovers connect and spread
like this stain of coffee on
bleached bond white Campfires burn deep in this cave
and midnight travellers still seek its light
one wary eye on the ebony
lurking without
the other eye seeking meaning
in the ebony
that lurks within
the lights that dance
in that second cup
after midnight The shaman sees
multitudes
contains
all weary travellers And this night is a burden to me
for the black cup also
contains the despair of
generations left outside
the cavern mouth Tonight it is my turn
to stand guard while
others find comfort within
So long as this cup lasts
I'll write the dancing lights
alert for tigers
and ask for a third cup
to see the tribe through
to morning
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