At the Bottom of a Steel Canister

my hand reaches for the last tea bag, which I ease
into bone thin floral china.
 
Water with love first, you always said,
the honey comes later. Outside
 
where storm has flexed its claws, a porcelain sliver leans
crisp against the hurried rush of clouds.
 
And this is the one that follows, after Paris
and broken coffee cups.
 
Dusk is a sheath our senses are dulled in, but tonight
the sudden burst of smoke and copper, threads a tongue with acid.
 

© Natalia Spencer 2015

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3 thoughts on “At the Bottom of a Steel Canister

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