The Dead Pour Me Out Like Tea
I am dead to many, a few are dead to me.
I am not forgotten
by girls in green silk sarongs
for they still pour me tea.
The dead are drunk on themselves,
as I am.
I throw up a rope,
they haul me up
enough to see
the moon
caught in a teacup,
then I let them,
let them breathe life
into my mouth.
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