Crapulous Impression
Crapulous Impression(To J. S.)
Still life, still life…the high-lights shine
Hard and sharp on the bottles: the wine
Stands firmly solid in the glasses,
Smooth yellow ice, through which there passes
The lamp’s bright pencil of down-struck light.
The fruits metallically gleam,
Globey in their heaped-up bowl,
And there are faces against the night
Of the outer room – faces that seem
Part of this still, still life…they’ve lost their soul. And amongst these frozen faces you smiled,
Surprised, surprisingly, like a child:
And out of the frozen welter of sound
Your voice came quietly, quietly.
„What about God?” you said. „I have found
Much to be said for Totality.
All, I take it, is God: God’s all –
This bottle, for instance…” I recall,
Dimly, that you took God by the neck –
God-in-the-bottle – and pushed Him across:
But I, without a moment’s loss
Moved God-in-the-salt in front and shouted: „Check!”
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