It is an uneasy sleep,

that fuels my creativity,

nourished by exotic beans,

shipped here in burlap sacks,

stacked in the dark recesses

of my unsettled mind,

to be sorted, graded and blended

in the labors of my dreams.

Restless in the night,

I imagine I roast them slowly,

precisely to the point

where  their earthy colors

reveal sensual aromas

of Kenya and Jamaica

and render sable flavors

conceived in holy communion

by silent acolytes

toiling in mountain fields.

Equatorial sunshine and rain,

offered up to ancient gods,

transmogrify

fruits of the land

into the body and blood

that nourish my soul

and disturb my sleep

like dark, liquid love.