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02 December 2011

Yes, a poem about a utensil

Metal spoon
handle and scoop
tool of time
your uncertain content of tin and silver
was unhappy mixture, cool now
but such memory of white hot radiance

Undulant underside curve
upside down mirror
false sense of what is real
delicate set atop white wove linen

Down warped reflection
descend to brown broth
touch first, explore first
sibylline sense of what will come
thermal thrift of transferred heat
slide smooth atop ridged enamel to
warm, sensing, tasting tongue

Your journey
from cold dark drawer
to wet mouth, to washer wetter still
And then repeat.

Rhythmic use,
meals like oftener tides decide
your insentient movement

Yet hottest curry or sweetest syrup
fail to move you
slip past unfelt

Cruel reincarnation
if indeed such concept proves.