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