(no subject)

The tea that has nothing to do with your life,
The suddenly dumplings of home.
Not only these but the street of hotels
Winding down to a stop like the cherries on shells,
To the basement Chinese place, its waiter, his wife
Who he speaks to invisible back with the smells.
Not only these but the neon that's new
On the mobled meringue on the snow, throwing wide
Into softer blue silvers than orange could know
On a hill with less history, green as although
Where its underskirt mushroomings lift at the side
Where the glue
Of the dough
Spills the truth of the dome.
Don't eat the scalloped one. Try something else.