November 27, 2007
The coffee breaths in its glass press, aluminum feet crooked from the time we took it camping. Boiled water poured in over a river stone table. Porridge and the scent of pines; a shimmer of lichens, your hair in the morning Northern light. The coffee still breaths this way for me, here in the city in an old apartment's room; I open its windows and wipe its sills against damp mold, to the smell of letter keys, grit wind, paper and pen. The coffee breaths still in its glass press, on my desk; today, a friend went into labour at dawn. I drink hot coffee and wear a talisman; bound and boundless, for bindings, craft, paper and tree. The coffee breaths in its glass press and films the inner surface, but I can still imagine what it looks like: the turning grit, a shimmer of oil, the texture of the grind.
Posted by delire at November 27, 2007 01:21 PM