I was rooting through tea-chest after tea-chest
as they drifted in along Key West
when I chanced on ‘Pythagoras in America’:
the book had fallen open at a book-mark
of tea; a tassel
of black watered silk from a Missal;
of a tea-bird’s black tail-feather.
All I have in the house is some left-over
squid cooked in its own ink
and this unfortunate cup of tea. Take it. Drink.