Feast

four. 

Smoky sun

Whitewashed sky

Milky pavement drifting to the sea

I waded through it to the sea

After we -

(At a melancholy dinner)

Picked at each other 

We picked at our food

And we

Agreed that it was good.

Good, fine, nice, well…

Masked hell

Of untranslatable words

Hanging almost, circling almost

Lifelessly over this table

A mobile suspended

At the memory of being spun

Of casting shadows on the wall

And strung

From it’s ring

Are knuckles drumming

Butter knives clawing at ceramic

Glasses sweating on the table

And parallel stares

How do I find my way through these 

Eyes drawn out the window

To the sea

To the gray beyond the burning colors

Here

The violent tomatoes

And slaughtered veal

We would sooner mirror

The drained sky

In drained eyes

We would sooner fall silent then argue passionately

Amongst colors

Would I hack away at the quiet

Devour every pause

Would I grab the arm of our

Soft-spoken waitress

Who slices the thickening tension

Removing razor edged plates

Tell her

I love them will you let them know?

I don’t want to go

Unfinished

And how do we find our way through

So many armies of insurmountable lines,

To the final

Sentence?