Thin fish, an oily layer of paint
on canvas laid upon a dish.
Thick outline in same gray
that drew the plate itself
still downward sliding
by a blue pitcher left out to dry
as units of tactile measurement:
foot, arm’s length, hand’s breadth
hold the memory of the body
that crafted it, identical
span between fingers,
knuckled segments to scale
the reach into a dimension
where fish float, where fork and moon
perfectly match as silver flattens
into ornament not instrument
of illumination or ingestion,
just a well-tined plunge
through darkness
to the shaved side of a mullet
beached upon a tray.
The carafe’s ready to fill the cups
and your eyes across from mine
fathom the depths below
a table that holds all in place.