Break Fast
The
table- cloth was a souvenir from Turkey.
It
had a very simple olive pattern,
The
kind you might find in a good café
Or
restaurant where the meals are affordable.
The
kind you might find your hands floating over
Stirring
spoons of sugar or lifting glasses
And
bottles of water and wine, picking up bread
And
paper napkins or surely raising to take out
Bank
cards, in order to settle the bill.
In
order to settle the bill.
Hardly
is this last phrase out and everything,
The
whole panoply of artifacts,
Suddenly
is in freefall before you.
Like
that last joke you heard before leaving.
The
Familiar
Don’t
talk to me about storms in teacups,
Speak
rather about the dervish in your espresso.
For
your idioms and metaphor are tired,
As
tired as my crocs worn out from pacing
Over
the same old living space. Here, then,
Is
where I dwell in both the word and the poem.
And,
in memory! The ontological shifts
Which
we must surely feel as much as the pedal
Pressing
down on the pianoforte sustaining the SOUND
The
words vibrating each particular element
Each
particular word, key, shape or movement
Given
the proper attention it deserves.
Such
is modality. Yes, I would speak to you of modality,
And
the ontological shifts in taking a coffee!
