Leaves
Leaves. Tea leaves. Tea ceremony. Teenage me. Hangzhou. Shanghai. 1997. Stir-fried lettuce leaves today. Leaves of Grass. What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman. What peaches and what penumbras! Will we walk all night through solitary streets? Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
