Fabulae

The Imperfect Is Our Paradise

The Imperfect Is Our Paradise An orange leaf on every finger bowl: a dozen tongues, mute about their clear water and their own orange scent and the way the glass pressures the heavy, white-flossed linen a little, as a cat flattens grass in the yard. Suppose that this complete simplicity is the torment itself, delighting nothing of the vital I? The wainscoting smiles in refraction through the clear water; the cone of the whelk catches the frank daylight from the window, and so appears whiter than the white freesia in its vase. I don’t know how to live with beauty. Even the held breath of expectation enlarges it— places set for guests to sing and slap the table until the silver jumps like fish from their boisterous grace. When the walls were wet I loved their particular blue. The height of the flowers through the door’s arch is another thing I can’t escape—the trouble is the stillness, the not desiring so much more than this: an orange leaf on every finger bowl. 53 ...