A mosaic of incandescent clutter,
on a plastic table, translucent and diaphanous
the absence of crumbs and nacreous glue of warm grain
made glaring by the foam-flecked trails of windex
They are two, and many more between.
Fingernails caressing aluminosilicate,
predictable orbits across changing surfaces
Gorilla glass filmy and opalescent with
secretions from the pads of fingers worn and prints eroded.
A date, phoenix dactylifera, a strained effort
to mend the sutures of an ever-widening fault
He is made of paper, easily pruned and marked upon
She, a broken gyroscope,
Subject to tried and troubling crucibles.
Japanese paper lanterns and,
kitchy bottles of soy sauce,
absentmindedly, they move without intention,
the black milk, sweating through white rice.
The diners’ dilemma;
Dampened salt and uncracked pepper,
Shrapnel of feed and fabric minefields
And the worst, the communal isolation;
Stains on corners of cracked lips unnoticed by one sitting alone,
The veils of mortality, shrouding the air,
as casual glances remind others of our own pathogenic,
movements across the naked lightbulb until dusk.
Intimacy of the inanimate and narrow,
yet the brightness by its virtue and villainy,
summons pixelated eyes- conditioned to seek
moth-blue havens, aquariums of text and image.