Mark Lamoureux
Lapsang Suchong
There’s no
thing
in this café as
blue as
the cold
organs folded in
to me by
the morning
after lips stained
not blue
but wine red vine
green eyes
a grey gel
on the bodies
of Americans
I go trembling
into my
seat go
trembling into
reflexology ad
infinitum in the
spiraled
oubliette
of these days
face cracking
the silver prayer
of a hand
into the quiet
cold air prints
a leaf face on
the window glass
chill seeps
glass atoms
moving so
slow slower
now they’re a reverse
dryer churning
out
side
the frozen world
not made wet
by any
means