Coffee
In my cup, comfort— water pumped from the earth where stands: me, my house, my septic field. Deep below this the hidden waters and my little electric pipe. All this washes over the roasted, crushed up seeds of a tropical tree—each one might have been a tree and cell by cell fleshed, anticipating germination. With this, just a splash of nourishing, fatty liquid once teet-squeezed, not by the lips of a baby cow, and not to feed or fatten one through a cold spring though it was made, warm and dark, expressly for that purpose.