Two teacup saucers
Unaccompanied by their twin sisters
Might be topographically lacking
But, my–
Aren’t they lovely when set
On a bird-bone table.
Fragile to the eyes,
Her calcite buttresses
Cradle silver spoons and empty elbow-gloves
With a woodwind heart
You would expect it to crumble,
But on the contrary
It whistles sweet tunes
When in good company.
At the end of the table
A small knot remains unpolished
A drain to collect
Spilled tea and
The crumbs of unfinished sentences
Fallen from the mouths
Of anxious suitors.
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