At the table of witches all the instruments are pointed. The food still grows, the chairs settle still.
At the table of the commonwealth all the songs and conversations are forced, self-referential. The printed word will wait while dogs crowd below, one hundred legs for a dozen heads.
In the benches of the smiths commissions cool, need slouches towards anger.
In the arc of winter birds bolts of missing fabric are described in every space, from every angle.
Of all the many things left at home, thanks are the sorest missed.