jasmine tea

                                               
The cast-iron kettle steams a choir of voiceless stars truer than us.
They lurch in desperation toward God, for one songed sorry kiss
wait above the green as if heaven is what grows below the art of shadows
a howling monster of melody from which angels soar to love us
in the prudent conniption of blindness and dawn. You touch the green
of your eyes to my lips. I am man.

The cerulean cup holds armless naked clouds bigger than us.
They race in circles, kiss the wide brim, wait above the green
as if heaven is what grows below the bold and steeping earth
a windless winding slip of sip from which angels escape to love us
in the reckless calm of reflection and sunset. I lift the hazel
of my eyes to see you. You are woman.

Two tongues entwined around the memory of leaves and honey.
The head, the breath, the scent of tea and a whisper.