mornings have bulk and that saves them

from immediate death—

                                  but they lose weight,

become afternoons            arrested at silences

too listened for and too           listening


taking all to bed at last


                 call them evenings


seventy-five rpm down to thirty-three


that there isn’t

going to be anything else

seems for sure, is the night,

seems forever’d


Bibliographical info

Russell Atkins' “Coffee” from World'd Too Much. Copyright © 2019 by Russell Atkins. Used with permission of The Cleveland State University Poetry Center. All rights reserved.

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