Because our waiters are hopeless romantics

plates that mimic lily pads or horseshoe crabs,

              swifts’ wings,

golden koi, whirlpools, blowholes in rictus:

              all smashed against the table’s edge—

              for violets & vespers

              rare lichen grown in local snow

authentic silt dark from the Nile or Tigris.

              Surely you know that poultry, if cooked right,

will cure most common psychic ills?

              It’s something to do with the feathers.

                                      ≈

. . . but you’re hungry. Come in. Sit. Taste.

              There’s breast of swan for shame.

Try a quail tart for rage,

              macaw on poached orchids for boredom.

And we serve so many other things.

              There’s really nothing you can’t order:

goat’s feet, orange groves, prophets & smoke

              convent orphans playing violins

flavors of memory, winter & wax, angles of sun, extravagant claims . . .

              Don’t worry, there’s plenty—

it’s a mysterious feast you attend, but it offers

              an affable scent of the cauldron, the light of abundance poured

over every table & marvelous barstool    

Come in—

                                      ≈

Now you’re getting the gist:

              at each table’s head that growing pile of shards

is not waste but homage to the potter.

              The world’s a dish to relish, to finish:

this conch afloat in broth

              a frilly and vertical eye  

though portent & probably tainted, is solace

              like these towers of loquats & glittering scales

or our bright pans’ brash mortal clanging.

              Blink back the sun and look inside.

Our tiny lights don’t at all resemble stars.  

              Come in, come sup. You’ll never feel full.