the glass

in a tea stall with a friend
years back
talking about emptying
my glass,
adding more tea,
sugar or bitter
Kahlil Gibran charmed
our young hearts,
thirst for a stroke on
the breasts
and rampant
fire to dust
of poetry-songs
beers and rain and
the guys’ hands
capable of tearing off
shirts, virginity, and
dancing with piano,
guitar, and violin
with our voices
with our bodies

then of course
broken glass incident
years, subsequently,
i couldn’t read from
her eyes when they said
she wasn’t virgin
therefore she was
underselling Mary, her
bearing a child
no physical wounds
no fire for the eye
out of sight, now
out of touch
songs depleted
from our chords,
archived or just

over ten years and
still in this teadrinking
business, growing old,
never trained
to be experienced
except to be more
just let my glass
keeping it away
from uncaring dust,
my fingers
my palms
get in touch with
some kind of

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