flap through the dark windows like stiff-
flags. Wind stirs much of the street.
uncut lime is small and fits
the palm's hollow, nearest the wrist.
turns like a key: the apartment
opening to the neighbors' doors;
front door to the sidewalk beneath
tree of urgent flags, and the windows,
sockets which seem so much like passages—
be looked, but not stepped, through.
the refrigerator, the light blinks out again,
the calm of cold puts off expiration
little longer. The smell of the wind before
charge through the window, the odor of gas
the maniacal blue flame, rising
wraith and the sweet forgiving smell,
long dedication of the tea whistle.
tea's wheaty steam. On the teacup's lip,
nearly saying it. There is no detail.
turn to make. Only the heat before and