Seven Cups of Pu-erh, Gong Fu Style

The way this tea comes to be is
a state secret. This small cup
is a dark both of whispers.
The dirt the tree grows in,
the leather from the donkey’s
back, the blood from God
knows whose opened arteries,
seems to have leached out
of these twisted smoke-black
leaves and now that it’s all
inside of me, I know I won’t
be able to sleep until
the tea is dry again and all
of it’s secrets lie dry
and quiet, and the stains
in the cup set up hard and cold.