The Lapidary Speaks
It's the greatest thing—
when you realize there is no death.
That it all takes place at a dinner table
without linens or forks or neckties
and we ask for refills of wine
without recognizing that every time
we dive in the ocean, we're only going
for a swim. To cut a cabochon
or trace an agate is to know these ruins
will never go quiet. Have you noticed
how sky holds the water down—
a woman's palms over a pleated skirt?
She says inured, she says noise churned,
she says swallow and moon
your own tide. Tonight: brush your teeth,
then eat. At some point, the chassis
will rattle and you'll come home
as expected as a bedroom closet.
The table never changes
the chairs, always mellifluous
rips in a current toward open sea, where
the wind's fetch is without limitation
and everything tumbled thrums.
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