Silverware Makes White Noise

That is my end of the table:
porcelain and livid.
You live here.This is your spot.
Mosaic, assembled, braised.

Life is all forks and spoons now.
You bite into me. Al dente?
Something chips away, little by little
I begin to feel like bread crumbs:

Grainy, static
or some such variant. And that thing
we seem to have discovered
upholstered, episodic, rearranged—

that furniture
is now immovable.What is credible
though, is that
gingerly

we have come to realise
that pain is a four letter word too
synonymous with the other.
You and I are merely bitten.