Appetite (9)

Where numbers boarded lively, bled,
I blink dim corners,
shreddings of star-sprawl.  Then this wash
of night waters,
affirming the ship's list, enters their talk
of armatures,
or, deepening way, as is its nature, the talk
of armillaries, gift rings,
amending the ghostly counsellings,
the bedsheet or daybook
casts of atmosphere.  Anything I missed,
a hat or hand or floating book,
something lightly tugged, without a line
between, then lost, becomes
this rush of night-scents passing through a banquet,
a foam, divers, and no less foam,
albums of pen-and-ink quick-takes
taken over seasons.
And foam maybe, keening into middle century,
acquiring for itself
the tastes and tending consequence.  If only
to blink sea-blinding off.  Only to flex
cuisine. To see each bleached occasion spring,
surfacing rooms dreamed up
to serve conventional arrangements,
and filled by breath aloud,
and by the breath become these holiday
and wedding sketches, these
invitations to strong coffees, and to
pilafs and steamed kale,
intimations of fine dining
and homecooking
afterward.  

 

© Appetite (2)