I am something of a leaky cup.
Something I should have thrown away,
into a barrel, a bag,
but I push myself back in the corner,
bring myself out for tea,
and repeat the process,
leaks and all, c’est la vie!
It is not what I hoped,
but it serves its purpose.
I miss nothing.
I come on the parade and wave my flag.
I go back and ask the sky,
have you fallen yet?
You’re invisible so how am I to know?
Have I died?
Or do I continue?
Better to have died.
Answers anyone?
Do you know something the river doesn’t know?
Does the sun obey your orders?
Come up on time to suit your clock?
I, as I say, make tea.
Pour a decade of dreams to a cup
and steep until ready.
Then I drink dreams, write poems.
Look at the wall and make myself up.
It has been thus for a long time.
Two oaks in succession have died in my yard,
and I planted a maple.
It will stay with me long enough.
As I said, one more poem
until my little scale of things
weighs as much as the air.
Night leaves a signature in disappearing ink,
and I drink the last few lifetimes away.
A cup of tea,
brewed with a wild desire
to have one more affair with the world,
before it goes in the trash.