I watch the teacup silver spoons glide
gently across the peach mosaic
table, filled the criss-crossed patterns of white
clouds and a shriveling wrap
pushed together into a nice
teacup revamp.
And as the spoons glibber in glitter wise
curfews, clasping and contradicting the map
of the floor, the pattern of it shattered into a slice
of a brilliant new city glistening with screams
that did not lack
in tone and posture. I glanced at her wife,
the aloof prude, the petty nude slack,
masking her minute empty eyes
as they froze with a knack
of a symbolic routine wise.