Teacups

In a cabinet stabled with blue Mikado
and glass shelves upholding Minton,

I saw the ghost bones of my hand
through the porcelain’s translucent paste;

and being taught never to put a finger
in the delicate scroll-looped handle,

I cup one in my palm and lay it now
in manger of straw like a newborn lamb

or a gospel taught in a linen field.