some pithy paradise, small

and brief chrysalis of silence

in the quiet cafe. the crook of

steam from cooling tea, warm

finger of it fading over stark words

of another love poem. the stricken

violence of it. some things are

wordless, and others do not

need to be worded. so i am learning

speechlessness. such slight

miracles is a life woven from:

the scald of bitter tea, the mild

grace of amber lights, stopped

turn of the page. lingering 

on the final line. a drop of tea

on the napkin drying — a shard

of gleaming jasper.

still the sparrows starwheel by, sublime

supine breath, held, exhaled into day

break and the dandelioned dawn 

drifting by like feathers, like que

sera sera whatever will be

will be patient, will conspire

to fall into place, dear grace

of birds and other small braveries darling

sweet spongy lung this boneless

tongue such winged things that sung us

to primal bloodied life, and singing

anyway