Tea and the American Conciousness
…like the way orange colors the water.” But teas don’t do that. You frown. You wish this didn’t mean a thing. Besides, it’s orange blossom. Evening. You don’t say “where are the bathing flowers?” The ukiyo-e women, backs turned, we see when we say blossom. She waded in the dead moon. Do not turn around—they are the wet streets electric signs snowing, in the alley. The vendors in the loose and strung alleys. Veined heads on plumed throats extended from frail doors.
Bustle can be water praying in the woods. But on your rock continent, the monks became
cliffs, their winter birds far off.
Everyone held their own kitestring floating-world.
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