The light through tulips on the damask here

Is like dining in a Vermeer,


With old glass throwing as it does

On the tables leaded fuzz


That lends a certain still life amber

To the hors d’oeuvre’s chef d’oeuvre timbre,


The room the inside of a flower,

A sun-infused Parisian bower,


A silver nitrate taken through

The gelatin’s distorted view,


Day outside the tinted panes

Bloodied on the shaded lanes


While inside, the world’s condensed,

Its massive horror neatly fenced,


The solar system’s dying fist

Choosing Bordeaux on the list,


The hunger of our life to date 

Spread like star charts on the plate.