“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, January 5, 2019
Feast of air
He sets the table
for the holiday
he has planned
carefully,
gently laying
the knives-
blades facing inward
of course, there was nothing real
about this place setting
in this metaphor
Helping with a tool, utensil, in-kind-ness
He says,
Busy, I have so much work to do
I do not reply
I do not show I notice
anticipation,
I know this
is a holiday
and anyway, he knows this too,
(the closures)
he presses (on) the edge of
bleached napkins
naming each of his clients
He must go
to
to-day
too many
there lie(s)
the empty plates
while the water glasses break
a sweat
profusely
dropping rings
at the appointed places
becoming tepid
and easier to digest.
Painting by Hendrick Andriessen, Vanitas c. 1630-1640 in [Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...
No comments:
Post a Comment