A man full of endlessness comes home,

puts his coin purse on the table

drops loquats in a ceramic bowl.

He props his sword

—clean, still sheathed—

against the table.

He puts there the chatter of the marketplace,

the spiced air and distant crashing waves,

the warm sun, a warmer smile.

On the table, the man put one hundred variations

of the same bread recipe,

perfected.

Those he had loved and the faces he’d forgotten,

he gently placed them there.

The Song of Songs, Sodom, and Gomorrah,

the man set those on the table, with lingering

touch.

A city street, foul with smoke and blood—

he spread the blood on the table.

From the space between consciousness and oblivion

he plucked the weight of lifetimes, generations.

So many lives.

Handled like a wounded bird,

he lay his happiness on the table,

his sins, his hunger, his absolution,

’til on the table sat his love.

The man stood between his legs.

What a fine, old table they’d made

What a weight it carries.

He hoped it could hold,

just a little longer.