says the barista
when I admire the décor
riding the surface
of my green drink,
but I respect her artistry
and stare at its persistence
although I’ve now savored
enough to be recorded
in kelp-colored residuals
—a foam of bubbles, miniatures—
all around the upper third
of my tall glass, a seashore
for my matcha, tide receding.
The morning light entering
the coffee shop filters
through suspended ash of forests
burning at a pass to the north.
What recently made trees
stings our eyes and nostrils.
Each breath of this air
meets a yearning—
Let it float, this heart,
until we all arrive
at the far side of every fire.
