Dresden Porcelain

I

Like Dresden porcelain her hands
Were and they held both bounty
And glamour more or less lightly
And easily in their flats and slants

Made on an oak table
In autumn, in summer.
Sunlight over
Varnished brown, and the treble

Tones reached by her voice
Occasionally when she was exercised
By certain points of her narrated
Quotidiana. Sometimes her mother's

Spirit seemed to jar silently
In the air and swill a bit
Inter-generationally at
The wood and space about the crockery,

Aggravated, I fear, by crepuscular
Noiselessness and the hay less golden
In the field gaping through the Venetian
Blinds. Then swelling darkness spectacular.

Dresden Porcelain

II

Crepuscular rays spraying
All through France,

The
Evening clink-clacking
With pétanque.