Poised on the plate the knife makes eight
The ceramic truth, the blackened rough grate
Downward-cast glance fingers fumble for silver
As the letters on the counter silently quiver.

Candles I lit, true I would have held them
But filaments waxen bleed through my slow turn
Crouching, I maintain the blank staring contest
With my reflection, the face of no conquest.

The crockery scurries from bedecked drawers
The chairs from twos split into fours
Night beckons from outside, moonlight gleaming
Casting the horror of this table reeling.

Back to the wardrobe and goblet of wine
Hours pass too swift for the notion to dine
I can extract all the reasons and meaning
I snatched at the air, threw it to the evening.