On certain days I need tea turned rancid
cinnamon sticks at my bedside
flavoured anise seeds to chew
when you stick pins into my heart
needles as fine as a crow’s feet
silver hatchwork in the dark woods.
Fold finely ground pepper in a paper
dip edges of the paper in jasmine oil:
a fine unguent for a heartache;
spill over the polished stone by the river
supplications of milk and honey
that leave watermarks:
a filigree of illusion against light
that like crab in sand disappears
into the dark heart of nowhere.