poempic
Here where the bricks meet me in a straight line
Here where the bricks are cut by a leaning box
Here the box is as bright white as the window orchids,
they extend in poised rolling arches

Here in the window
the plants are a long ago green

Here the noon light enters soft yet
Here my bowl holds the silver spoon
and a small brown puddle

Here I think only of here
and the tea on the counter
I will drink soon

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