(Poem #10 on new numbering scheme)
some puer tea he came to pull out some of the small silences that grew like weeds. instead he pushed some poetry into the small cracks in the pavement. the air had turned to summer and there were some bees; some birds. with something hidden behind his eyes he tasted the sky out his window. he laughed. he grimmaced. he cried. he examined his black pencil. he decided to brew a small pot of puer tea; the water boiled. he spilled some consonants, some vowels. the poem (his life) started big; and ended small. just some tea in a cup like a shell cradling orange-brown water, somewhat bitter.
This poem of mine is unfinished, but I am done with it anyway. I shall go to the doctor again, now.
