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Gorgeous Surfaces

 They are, the surfaces, gorgeous: a master
pastry chef at work here, the dips and whorls,
the wrist-twist
squeezes of cream from the tube
to the tart, sweet bleak sugarwork, needlework
toward the perfect lace doily
where sit the bone-china teacups, a little maze
of meaning maybe in their arrangement
sneaky obliques, shadow
allusives all piling
atop one another.
Textures succulent but famished, banal, bereft.
These surfaces, these flickering patinas, through which, if you could drill, or hack, or break a trapdoor latch, if you could penetrate these surfaces' milky cataracts, you would drop, free-fall like a hope chest full of lead to nowhere, no place, a dry-wind, sour, nada place, and you would keep dropping, tumbling, slow motion, over and over for one day, six days, fourteen decades, eleven centuries (a long time falling to fill a zero) and in that time not a leaf, no rain, not a single duck, nor hearts, not one human, nor sleep, nor grace, nor graves--falling to where the bottom, finally, is again the surface, which is gorgeous, of course, which is glue, saw- and stone-dust, which is blue-gray ice, which is the barely glinting grit of abyss.

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