Sloat, Sarah J.

Tea Leaves

the kettle uneases
a patina of steam

in the shape of a lake

and soon I will let myself

lie down
in it

Let’s lay a cloth under our clutter,
acclaim the sanity of teapots
and backs of chairs, swans
curving into morning.

And though we’ve run out of sugar
and though time, too, runs out
to its grey and empty chamber

you fill a vase with grass
saying, “if there are no roses”

Between venetian blinds, light
falls tigerlean onto the table.

CafÃ© window: pigeons lift
on a wind that’s going, gone.

Bergamot and blue flowers.

Steam rises from a manhole.

Some thinking can only be done in the dark.

what sets the glow, what oils the fire
that skims the hills

and can I taste it

I strike a match at the stove
thumb the leaves

make of me steam
a monsoon

in fluid pilgrimage

On the sill, rain rubs the spoons.

It’s been raining for years
all afternoon.