An unfolding napkin
gently collapsing
into the supporting role
of the evening.
A graceful artifice
faintly subsiding
into the pull and tuck
of the gathering.
The corner of the mouth
softly acquiescing
to the light touch
of fate.
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3 comments:
This gem resounds with rhymes and slant rhymes: "graceful artifice": there's a subversive construction for you. My first thought was, when is fate's touch ever light, but I've decided to go with, when is it not?
I think there's an assassin lurking in this poem, and I don't necessarily mean that in a bad way.
I wondered the same thing about fate, but took it as a sign that “coincidence” just seemed to have too many syllables.
Fate was definitely the word: no coincidence, there. I like the way the poem stops on two syllables.
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