For example,
this elaborate floral arrangement
with voluptuous roses and fire-tongued tulips
appear to be left by the open window so long,
no wonder the butterfly has floated in
to put its exquisite pressure on the rose,
or the beetle found its way to the hyacinths,
delicately probing its center with its long antennae.
Or in this one, how the nautilus goblet
inset with silver and mother-of-pearl
just happened to be left on the table
with these overflowing platters of grapes
shiny as marbles,
the raw edge of the cheese fresh
as if it had just been cut,
the hemisphere of an apple left on a plate
as if the owner meant to come back for the other half,
and finish his meal of oysters
freshly sprinkled with lemon juice,
its golden rind swirling down the edge of the table
like a delicate mobile.
A chopless skull rests haphazardly
on an open book, the pages worn.
A violin holds down the facing page,
its bow casually laid across the spine.
And one must not forget the seashells,
exotic relics in an already eclectic collection,
strewn like pebbles in front of bouquets,
vanitas, half consumed meals,
with devouring caterpillars and
persistent flies that find themselves everywhere
in the interstices of this silent,
immovable world.
And in each one,
there is a brown expanse of background,
as if these well laid-out tables
did not exist in any room in any house,
but floated in space,
where the sky is always a burnt umber
or a raw sienna. An accident
that the petals fell just so,
a coincidence that the tablecloth folded
in a manner that lead the eye upward,
and always a soft light,
that gave everything its proper glow,
an unmoving sun
that remains at the window
eternally
at just the right angle.
