we weren’t full yet

we ate
because the man had an impressive knife
and we sat at a table that suggested we should
and we used
closing arteries
to suffocate the desire to leave
and hoped to dislodge a years worth
of waste
into stale waters later

and the sensation of our collapsing aorta
suggested the comfort of a looming settlement

the chef stroked our palate to climax
even though we couldn’t taste
even though the chewing was enough
to pass some time

his love
and the things he made
grew cold
under dying heat lamps

but we didn’t mine much
because it had no bearing on our joy

we would leave
when the man stopped carving
or when our teeth submitted to bone

or when the shapes stopped exploding

we’d think about going back from time to time
remembering the the smell
of a man’s dreams

resuscitated by a desk lamp