RELAIS LOUIS XIII

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.