The day makes its final appearance,

the sky rubbed out in places

with a blue so understated it’s nearly

a memory of blue. Forget the vase

arranged on the table, the tulips

are too vague. Even the white

tablecloth is an erasure.

Imagine the pale drone

of dinner conversation,

the politics of brie, cold soup.

The good china infects everything.

Even now the knive falters,

the wine glass can’t be saved.

Think of the blank mirrors

of spoons, the fish

whose whiteness is a given.

Consider the ravenous napkin.