a scry of tea and cataracts
half the world breaks down at twenty-one
but if you feel like walking
the road keeps going until forty-five
then it breaks down too.
you stare into her cataracts
behind them
it's the broken world, the last of the road
far behind.
you stare into your tea
trying to sleep, you know you're only drinking the smell
and only because you don't know which end of a cigar to put in your mouth.
you stare as you sip
white face wriggling, shadows like craters
and though it was greenly clear when you steeped it
your tea has become as dark as the shadows on your bobbing reflection
and you can't see a thing behind that big white cataract.
july 20, 07
No comments:
Post a Comment