Fancy Dinner Party

I look down: fish on a plate stunned
by flame and butter, stuck in spicy dust.
A mysterious cricket-language goes on,
glad and satisfactory. But what if I cannot
harness my sadness? The table is gorgeous:
wide gold candles, bits of nature casually
sticking up here and there from glass columns.
Outside in the turn-around, a sweet sculpture
of two pale lambs with hornets nesting
in the stone. I often wake covered with a fine grit
that moves when I move. My coat is a joiner
of other coats, soaking in scents of mint
and suede and Joy. Something seems
punched through. What were you saying?
My mouth is a burlap sack. But here comes
dessert. It’s not just on fire, it is fire.

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