Quarter past eleven o'clock
I ignite liquid fire full blast
Into a porcelain ivory tea pot tub
Spicket spitting scalding heat
Hissing to a bubbling scream
I plunge myself
For eight long minutes: seethe and steep
Til I run clear and black darjeeling bleeds
Submerged below a hairline crack
Not trying to drown just oxidize and drain
Out chamomile boredom and peoke pain
Astringent anger wrung wrinkle dry
Steamed loose leaves float to water sky
I lift myself
Cleansed and cooled I fill my cup
By boiling life and pouring it out.
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