my teabag spins gently
slowly
suspended lightly from my hand
half in the freshly hot water
half exposted to the
warm night air
clockwise
relentlessly clockwise
a few tiny stars
smiling down on
the shadows of distant tress
the sky all watercolors
on velvet
just listening
wind and crickets and passing cars
and the soft footsteps
of a thousand ghosts
who listen and smile
in return
sip some tea
and spill some blood
that they may speak
walk
endlessly walk
in search of the graves
of once friends
made not you by
forever's caress
listen to distant trains
and passing cars
and the sleepy rotation
of heaven
and generations
of crickets
a moving star or a
lonely plane or
a grieving angel
then chamomille silence
and lost in humming
rosemary dreams
until the obsequious
insistence of morning

04/20/2002

Posted on 04/20/2002
Copyright © 2025 Gary Hoffmann