Up from the backwoods

Of a

Black

Tea

Thicket:

 

There shines a

Tiny

Ceramic glass,

Fingering the lip of its

Paper porcelain

Like water.

 

Without teeth, every food seems to

Rattle

In the mouth like

Dry noodle, like

Magic marble under the tongue that

Films over in an

Oil layer.

 

In the arch of the equator I developed

Night terrors, strokes of the brain and

At least

Seven

Tumors.

 

But

 

Spinning vertical,

I came to

See

A galaxy:

 

Swollen stars steeping themselves

In the valley of my hangnails.