A Tale of Hands
The palm stands at the edge of space.
—Wallace Stevens
The white teapot glows
like some bleached palm tree
that was forgotten here.
Once-dry leaves have sunk
to its shadowed bottom
like abandoned palms.
My palms gently cup
the pot and I let liquid
drip, dark as wood.
On my forehead
a smudge composed
of last year’s palms.
It burns hot as tea.