Poem for Thursday, November 15, 2012

Black

The color of the coffee steaming

in the cracked, glued-back-together

mug. The color of the mug. The color
of the morning as the frost crystallizes

against the glass. The color of the glass--

trick question.

The feeling of the anvil dropping.

The act of conceding. The unanswered

questions, the spaces lingering around
the cosmos and the shadow of Charon

himself.

The residuals from the camp fire and

the absence of warmth. The distance

between the two points in the line on the
coordinate plane. The skin of the Maasai

and the Serengeti at midnight. The use
of metaphor.

The texture of stillness and the taste of

salt. The color of colorlessness. The The The.

The last line of the poem and at times
the poem itself:

This is no          exception.