Curator
       

       This table,
       chair and cushion
       by the window;
       the invitation
       to the arranged 
       marriage of 
       function,
       form,
       and hands that know their place,
       folded,
       pressed against the zipper of my lap;
       no embarrassment of fumbled forks,
       nor soiled plates;
       no, this is a place to contemplate,
       the possible meal,
       the possible word,
       spoken, heard,
       as the wind travels
       through the trees
       through the screen,
       lifts the petals in the vase,
       settles in your chair
       and recites a prayer,
       of empty grace.       
       
 
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