Of Tea Water

In a condensation of the tea water with a fragrance of pekoe, in evaporation as if a scent, like a landscape of Claude Monet’s. As we kiss with love’s extract beneath a trellis of the stars, in my poetry of memoirs, my impression of sunrise. The scent lingers, the hour feigns as the moment’s pleased, and the brush falters. Now the sunrise on the canvas, the stars fall, the sun rises, and

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