“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.
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