Your eyebrows, carved, glower on one sweaty forehead. Does that mean I should go, criminal that I am?

There's more to stare at in the teahouse, where black cherries peer out of eyeballs, out of bowls, upon a bridal shower of branches.

The sun's like some blood on a knife. It glows strangely again when washed. Black tea floods the room in the heat of transgression.