Paul Muldoon

I was rooting through tea-chest after tea-chest
as they drifted in along Key West

when I chanced on ‘Pythagoras in America’;
the book had fallen open at a bookmark

of tea; a tassel
of black watered silk from a Missal:

a tea-bird’s black tail-feather.
All I have in the house is some left-over

squid cooked in its own ink
and this unfortunate cup of tea. Take it. Drink.