First Pour

An unreflective bodhisattva nods to the unwashed dishes. Once again I seek a daily liberation from a chore long boondoggled. Next a phlegmy mantra gummed through spongy lips. I sleep, I wake. I sleep, I wake. The mug is perfunctorily rinsed, I am aware of not being aware. Sweetness comes in pink packets. The sacraments are torn open two at a time with habitual practice. The ceremony proceeds. The percolator bubbles a last breath. Maya burps its body-dreams, I pour black oozing bliss into my cup where it settles like mud beneath a lotus bloom of aroma.