Buddha in a Teacup

Once, timed in an unsold smirk embroidered  
in satin sails and perique blended tobacco,
I found Buddha in a teacup.  
  
Entranced, I listened to his blackened
harpstring words, in nautilus shell spirals, 
octiplied in a lingered, matching India ink. 
  
In a paint-by-number slyshot 
bridge of mimicry, the waters of his words
retraced their floods, engaged to my mind's
harlot levees, the homecoming of his only words echoed,
recessed at the zenith of meter:
Ars longa vita brevis  
  
I took His guts from the dregs and pinned them
to my lapel, and removed my own from my sleeve
lest racked and pinioned sluggards entail anatomies
I've not yet had the glass to spy.
I'd like another cup just the same,
but tea time's over