[gausswho]

(Flipped to the page after and found a lovely ditty about tea):

There is a trickling, a grating, a stutter of cinders or light.

It catches my lungs, a breath of cinnamon.

I cough, as though I have swallowed coffee grounds.

The tea bag blessed with warm water lies there glistening

like birdseed in gauze in the colorless round of the pond.

It was as if someone had dropped a stone in a pond,

how your pupils used to expand. Or did the irises

shrink and expand, much as the flaming ring

on the stove does when I turn it down, then up?

Memory (I have poured the tea) blows on her hands.

https://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/mqrarchive/act2080.0035.002/15?...