Coffee Clouds at Dawn

At the end of the conversation
words have only letters,
morphemes measure bites of breath,
chewing air like storm.

Sounds erode space, form glyphs
from nonsense dripped from lips,
washing markers of time in dead language
I can’t read. The derivation is mysterious
as Sanskrit. There must be bits of truth
caught between these teeth of obscurity.

At the end of the conversation
sleep drops its veil in marginal night,
dreaming yields small comfort.
What is touch when it has no depth,
no texture, the absence of reason closing
its eyes against an ignorant clash of questions,
succumbing to time in fading minutes.

We blanket detachment with hours
till dawn shades consciousness doubt gray,
dread stirring its cups, steaming coffee
deep with impenetrable sustenance.