They Will Sew the Blue Sail


The bike shop owner’s wife’s bike

was the palest blue, a blue that

infringed upon white, that walked

the finest line beside it, and she

straddled this at the crosswalk,

talking into the wind at me,

with a flap of her silk scarf blowing

up into her face.


Teapot’s metal lid vibrates slightly

as I move across the room with it.

Like an earthquake scene from some film

where the camera moves in close

to take a good look at something.

Something that is beginning to vibrate.

I am examining a small crumb on the table.

A crumb so small I would never have noticed it

had not this fly come along to walk all around it,

to regurgitate on and before it,

to compulsively wash his hands busily beside it.

When abruptly teapot’s lid is popped

there comes an unsheathing sound

like that of a sword pulled from its scabbard.

When teapot’s lid is popped back down

teapot coughs a single steam ring

from its spout that lifts

beautifully, widening as it rises.


The bike shop owner’s wife talked

into the wind (I watched her feed

some day-old oolong to the shop plants once—

it somehow seemed obscene to me)

with a flap of her silk scarf snapping

her mouth as she spoke.