Wine sipped from crystal,
trout swallowed from silver forks,
our mouths not used
to starving for words,
too much already said.
Meaning what’s left
to talk about, meaning
I don’t have morsels
to feed you now,
just dry crusts,
the plate of my heart picked over.

Tomorrow maybe,
tonight, next week,
the festivity of talk
will rise like a cake,
we’ll come to the table
famished as before.