Percolator Ode

I know I’m rough while I sleep but first
thing, don’t I always awaken to you?
When can’t I see myself in any part
of your bodily shine? Call me crazy.
Call me addicted, a lack of grace
in the dark kitchen where my hands
are auto-mechanical in intention to take you
apart and put you back together, fresh
grind and the cleanest cold water,
turn you on with no switch, just a plug
and leave you for a few minutes to pout
and simmer. A love, happy happy love
handle curve I return to, tightly hold. Lift
into a hot little dance. Wild pursuits and mad
ecstatic escapes just for me, and nothing at all
like some ancient Grecian counterpart. No
moments are trapped, silently remaining etched
on your skin. You’re constant reflection
of the world that surrounds us now. Right Now,
proof of our obligation to evolve, surrender
all impression and memory, fully conscious and back-
casting the light of our Being who engirds, total.
You’re the urn I empty in morning, container
I want to rest in. This is my last will:
burn my entire body slowly slow
to a crisp carbonic brick, tap my big
charred toe so I’m crumbled into bits
to be ground. Put me through the grinder.
I’ll fit in your filter, saturate your half-full drink,
asleep and stainlessly filtered within you.
You: always here. Always morning.