Sarah Gorham
September 2006

Vague

When I say oolong, you hear how long.
Oh the vagaries of biology: histaminic tongue, water in the ear.

Or am I drowned out, this ear-splitting, shuffle tape
flinging us like vagabonds from 17th century Vienna
to Virginia to India, where they grew, and still grow, a musky oolong.

The vagus nerve saunters around heart, lungs, mouth, sweat glands,
outer ear, and still delivers, despite its broad
job description.

Which kind? Of oolong?   Indeed. The color amber,
which melts or warbles or signals slow, slow, slow.

I love the precise way men reach for their wallets
in their jeans, back pocket, as if they had eyes... How much?

Said Borges: No use counting the days like dollars.

When you ask for the time, it depends.  You mean right now?  (Yogi Berra)
My watch like a vagrant refuses to be pinned down.

Money is determining. This oolong, vacuum-packed and shipped
by the Behera Brothers: $11.89 a heap.

But how many leaves make a heap?

First published in The Kenyon Review.