Brunch

Intergalactic pancakes
swirling in the syrup
of dark energy.
Cappuccino Milky Way
frothed on black coffee.
This bistro is empty
on Sunday morning,
my favorite spot
in the cosmos.
No one here on
Sunday morning
but you and I.
Space swept clear,
yet dappled with atoms
of sunbeam.
I gave up concentration
to attain one-pointedness.
I become the dark
and give birth to
original light.
Silence filled with
infinite points of view,
all valid, none
needing to be spoken.
When I gaze at you
over the rim
of my white cup,
100,000 light years
dissolve like
grains of sugar
in perfect joy.