Ceramic crashes clash with the quiet night air.
A thunk and a thump—
cold doors opened,
then closed once more.
You could hear the frost his as it creeps along—
seeking another warm convert for its cool cult.
Spoons, forks, and knives tinkle:
creating stainless music that draws light form the darkest corners of the room.
Plastic wraps crinkle their already wrinkled faces
and cough up pairs of slices.
Bread offers itself demurely to layers of spreads
and dashes of sauces.
Breathing becomes a meditative mantra,
and before long once-idle fingers birth a sandwich.
Its crust is cut and contemplated with wistful whisper,
and then composted.
Some mouthfuls of pinot are decanted
onto sculpted crystal castles whose rivers run red.
These artefacts of plate and goblet,
of cup and chalice,
and of hand and utensil are offered
to entropy in stories of sensation,
and between feeling.