Tea

My fear is that this will turn out to be another poem.
with its limited and sheer range of brilliant human temperatures.
It sweeps in the droning silence out in the exploding
Escarpment. May begins with its striped shirts
and people look by at its becoming loss
in the false points of space and someone typing
the fateful “s” helplessly featureless like a good
meal really, like one looking at things
through someone else’s words or something.

Not that that is my fear
It is the fear of the one-eyed animal that sits beside me in the cage
And how it just looks at me expecting something
Both thinking. Come up with
something beautiful
Come like one that is well read or has expressive intonations
Like every syllable counted
and almost has a story but then reverts
To imagery before the truth can be told.

This ice feels good in any tea.