after a still life painting by Daniel Monda
Bean breaks open. Thoughts
percolate. Time to assimilate what’s worth keeping;
what’s left over is again a bean, though small
and often bitter, its sheen
reveals its true value. Drink it black, no cream.
Drink it black.
And what of cream’s absence? Oblivion
sips at thresholds fresh each day
no less a man; his art
is not to blame.
We sense the coffee before we see it; plant
two feet on the ground. Our eyes
—or is it the other way around?
FOR THE SAKE OF ARGUMENT
after a still life by Daniel Monda and a poem by Joseph D’Orazio
Let’s say the white moth
fluttering above the basil
represents the mind.
Could be yours. More
likely not since the pen,
standing in for matter,
happens to be mine.
Can brains think, lacking
bodies planted on a chair?
Could dualism be a hoax?
Air stirs magenta phlox.
The black cat crouches,
poised to kill a finch.
Is the kitty evil?
Are the flowers good?
The moth flies to grisaille art,
a coffee pot, painted shades of gray,
cup reflected on its metal face.
Grind the beans while they last.
Drink the whole world black.