There’s no movement, except a thread
of smoke throws a feathered shadow
on the far wall, electric’s gone dead,
the candle stands stock still, only its burning head
trembles a little within its diffuse halo.
The props for small talk, tables, chairs, party hats;
elbows off please, smiles on, preoccupied -
even smoke has shadows! how to trump that?
entire months fallen domino-flatas the years windmill from side to side.