A difficult morning with my brother. The sour weather, the tea, the chains of knotty emotional heritage we wear each thickly midst his sinews and fleshes. The tea he's taken lately to brewing up is this earthy chinoiserie called puerh, boy! It comes in cakes similar to the cook-fire fuel we'd harvest off the street when I was living in Kerala, black bricks at which he works with a little steel pick, teasing out the stuff of our tisane, minding the qi. The pot and cups are tiny, the infusions serial. "The first pot opens on damp warmth, lit dimness, a feline presence; immediately an unwelcome draft rises, brings you to the door, adjusting which leads you to be standing outside when a handsome peasant happens past astraddle his outsized fjord-horse. The second pot is sunlight beclouding itself just as you're at the verge of swim, stripped, at sea's edge, hungering sexually, wanting food. The third pot is a strange bed on top of whose orderly eiderdown you cede to sleep, fully-clothed, having just eaten chocolate, your beloved's long hand resting on your sternum." My brother. I leave for the office at eight, pot four; he keeps going.