Sketches of a Dead Man Breakfasting with God -- Star Black
matters at home or abroad;
the world is surrounded by flying saucers.
Tremblin questions reveal a "glass hive,"
while lesser monologues kiss the strangely bland
on the hand: an overflow,
My love clatters the cups.
The porcelain pirouettes, then slumps.
Fleas come out of hiding from within drenched hostas,
the rain has stopped, the rien of traffic.
If I knock, you are me. If you knock, I am you.
Across the porcelain, hops a geranium.
It will do. On a painted terrain,
as vellieties on water in a stream,
locked within loops on Ottoman porcelain
designed for a Sultan,
or a Sultan's queen.