My tea is the oolong color of silky wheat, but as I stir it turns to the sulky color of apple cider.

Tar Mexican coffee leaves hot speckles on my skin through the blue sandy camping mug.

The second cup is poured in the shape of tie-die molds.

Big guys are drinking out of little China.

I wonder if I'd feel better by wearing a sweater.

The sweep of drums came out with the streetlights.

The bar tender is sweeping up the day's crusts.

I am writing, upside down, of the whole earth that shifts like a faultline.

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