Wallflower II
by Stephen Mead
Is this table disappearing, all edges in a meld
With my hands & the wall?
The fork goes into cloth whole
As the ashtray & the plate follows after.
I clutch my wine glass & am receding myself now.
Absorbed, the candle, the rose, as one, become
A single stalk.
OK then, I’ll climb it, rise from the wax fog,
A taper still as anything, meaning as nothing
At all.
Fanning tongue after tongue, what a jungle of mist,
This, & how strange, an enchantment to find oneself
Grown invisible as a wilderness blipped into static
With a flick of the wrist, the channel just changed
& I in between still somehow real
Issue #1
10