Three leaves, still on the stem,
are rolled into a twisted splinter.
You could, while drinking the brown cup,
unpack a symbol for a triune God,
but which is the tiny prized bud
and which the larger less useful leaf?
But, oh, it is a cup of blasphemy!
Maybe these are the three ways
I love you: the truth of you,
the woman I’ve imagined of you,
and the astonishing mirage in between.
I want to taste every cup of you
until you don’t even darken the water.
I’ll do it just to warm your leaves.
Each root brown pack of leaves
is a slip of birth, life, and death; but what
does it mean drink so many down? How
many souls do I drink at one time?
Do they reincarnate as often
as I steep them? Who was it said,
“when drinking tea, drink tea?”
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