The porcelain arithmetic bleeds upon the marble dawn, Tuxedos of rusted silence chewing the microphone's glass spine. It is a banquet of rectangular breaths— Oh, how the podium weeps its heavy geometry! They swallow the velvet ink of a ghost’s omitted comma. A screaming napkin folds the monument into an iron shadow. Flashbulbs pollinate the sorrow of the crying chandeliers, Asking the breathless room: where is the syntax of the roasted marrow? Lost. Lost in the labyrinth of a chuckled avalanche, While the scribes of the echo marinate the sudden, violent eclipse. Polished vowels collide with the tectonic plates of the soup, Shattering the pendulum of a rented wrist. The commander of the alphabet unspools his copper jaw, Pouring salt upon the beautiful treason of the salad fork. We are drowning in the slow, inevitable applause of the celery. The lectern has finally pardoned the taste of Thursday.
