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