Grant Tarbard Coffee Futures It begins with a czeve brass pot buried In an old man’s beard of charcoal ashes. Is it the full grind that makes fortunes so Easily consumed with each pixie cup Depleted? Beads of pilgrimage as black As melancholy, shapes trapped in the rich Thick gloop; turn over the cup, seal it tight As a coffin, shake it well. A wish is Made as the elfin saucer is placed on Top and a coin laid on top of that to Dispel bad omens, left to cool so the Low tide inky webbed fortune doesn’t mislead. Prize open the tomb of granules to the Aromatic air in the purple steam Interpreting shapes for divination. Cup held at chest level, swivelled counterClockwise, the drained cup speaks with a whisper Both of the tense thighs of the past and the Silk lamp breast of the future, hand in hand With a weeping joy of beasts and angels Both, falling together with sooty dew Of cheekbones melting with the pierced sky’s bell. The cup is opened like a peacock’s tail, Psalms of brown eyed handsome planets gather In the sphere of your wounds and all the nights Come welling in your throat, soon to shed tears. Swill with the tipped jus, wishes granted with A fortune that sticks with stained lungs singing.
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