Still Life

The trees turn white, the way the flesh
of some fruit, cut open down the core, is pale
past the robust coloration of their skin;
the way the inside of a porcelain bowl
looks glazed with milk or lapped
with some translucence borrowed
from another world— And so I am
suspicious of the claims made on behalf
of stillness, as if there were no
momentum to be perceived in an angle
or a curve: nothing seems to move, and yet
two lines make a ledge midair; and a hollow
traces the curve of light’s eroded trail.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.