We sit across a table,

a gloved hand arranges objects

forged out of heat—crystal, china, silver.

A perfect setting for mind quests, loving jests, secrets confessed.

But the bantering cantor of past conversation

is gone, replaced by the slow gait of

terse politeness and the incessant woodpecking

of your blackberry.

It is a Bride’s bounty.

but I cannot pronounce you husband and life.

Clearly divisible, we are. And the remainder is

a reminder that no promises can be trusted

My eyes scan your face, and in the blank of an eye

you are lost again.

The wine is decanted along with our lives.

The steam rises off the plates and you

become more mirage than man.

The air around us hangs heavy

with the sodden dampness of embargoed emotions.

We compete with restraint,

and you tear a piece of your ire

off the loaf of bread, following

the path of yeast resistance.

Your quips are edged weapons,

sticks and stones that hurt me. 

 I don’t know what to with my arms.

Limbs that fit together so seamlessly

are now gangly appendages looking for

neutral ground.  So I make calligraphic strokes

on the menu’s deckled vellum and remember past caresses.

We are powder kegs lit by candlelight.

Yet the heat is not enough to ignite confidences

let alone the passion that once invaded our lives

like Norman mercenaries

The water goblet leaves a stain on the soft damask embankments;

a Rorschach that I am primed to inspect.

Is this a passing phase of your moon,

an heirloom calling card of renewal, 

or  an outline’s shard of the end of us?