Coffee Shop At the Edge of the Universe

Here, at the coffee shop at
the edge of the universe,
the flowers bleed
as if they were hearts,
the hearts ooze a darkness
like India ink,
and poets dip their pens in
and they write.
~
"Here at the coffee shop at
the edge of the universe,"
they write,
not knowing what it means.
~
"Here, where the sky nurses on black milk,
where the smokestacks feed the sky,
where the trees tremble in terror
and people come to resemble them..."
~
Here, at the coffee shop at
the edge of the universe,
the poets, the poets are bleeding.

Writing and bleeding
are thought to be the same;
singing and bleeding
are thought to be the same.
~
Write us a poem!
Send us a parcel of metaphors!
Comfort us with proverbs or candied fruit,
with talk of one God.
~
Distract us with theories of art
no one can prove.
~
Here at the coffee shop at
the edge of the universe
our heads are empty,
and the wind walks through them
like ghosts
through a haunted house.


~SAS