I will only ever give you, and myself, the speech I can find within,
that which is cranial, fresh from the brewed morning, clutched
by the handle. Watch me, as I may spill over onto the carpet,
and you’ll surely find difficulty in cleansing the palette.

It isn’t that I’m strong,
or the possibility for potency
– it’s how I choose not to linger, unlike a backseat driver,
or an over-the-should calling-out of 27-down
– a guess.

But there is a transcendent property about me, realized
when you can’t forget the stain I leave – not on the floor
– but where you walk, moist steps, soaking through even
leather, on through wool, into your pores and wriggling skin.
Soon, even, you’ll taste me on your tongue.


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