Rhyme and coffee-time. Mid-afternoon recharge. Java-Kenya-Sumatra perfume thick as fog braids the sunbeams. POHS EEFFOC shadow paints my table. My neighbor’s. The worn-wood floor between. Intoxicated caffeinated thoughts percolate. Scribbles drip on empty lines unfiltered. What does Kenya taste like? Scalded tongue has yet to know. The drug moves my hand in time to rhythms undreamed … until they reach … the page. Haibun, sweet bun. What difference does it make?
grows winter roots unperceived
hard won creation