I have seen the teahouses
carved into cerulean arches
that make a delicate reach
for the sky. From within,
smoke traces the same path
from the ends of cigars and the
infinite "oh" of many mouths.
The rafters converge in beams
of light, the tiles are etched
in holy words, the wrist of a girl
bends a perfect curve-
Another arch within arches,
hands, wrists, windows, doors,
mouths and words,
the sky.

And your cup lip dips into
a tenuous moment: a question
only form can ask, into an answer
you've known forever