Paraphernalia
Somewhere around the washing-up bowl
I learned the roundness of a dinner plate,
End-to-end like the sequence of daylight.
Its soapy reflection thought it a moon
Endlessly eyeing the blue and the brine;
A little tug-of-war with its heartstrings.
We’d eaten our overcooked vegetables
Off the face of the Sonneteers’ mistress,
Bludgeoned her fiercely with knives and forks.
As the moon knows the roundness of the sun’s
Absence, and the sun the circle of the night,
So is this the resurgence of all things:
Life immortal in paraphernalia.
