Saturday, October 9, 2010

Unwittingly from a pretty pot
I'd poured a night of stirring, steeping
but sleeping not

Inhabitting now night's draining cup
I lurk lukewarm at bottom
soaking stale stuff up

And right back through those pores I bleed
and color dawn with too much me.
It tastes of rust this cup of tea.


  1. When will you be writing a book?! I love the way you choose words and are willing to share them.