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The pagoda's roof curls beyond a lake-view glazed in reproduction
pink on serveware matched to the butter dish, the gravy boat, the
once-a-year feast — no Villeroy & Boch, but good enough, herr doktor,
to fake that recherché look. Pastorals stand for the village, and
candles, like black trees in the Brothers Grimm, script happiness
we could drown in.

*

Ladies inked on ironstone
sleep the sleep of the dead. We hear their hearts clink
with elegant thrift. We hear their forks tuned
to another orbit.

*

The foxhole
with its grass selvage
limns a hunger
thin as bleeding-edge prints.

*

White rose, red ranunculus.
          Red rose, ganglion of wires.
                    White asparagus, red coulis, cool arrangements,
dinners like driftwood in the ark of hospitable:
          surfeits of terror and pleasure.

*

Before the first snow, before the last course,
maleficium settles in our lungs. We swallow bitter
like good guests. The red line
hems our plates.

*

Of bindweed or fluorishes, nothing to say about the hand's elaboration.
Of creamware, only stacked and brittle confusion.

We bargain daylight out of black bread.

*

*