CRAPULOUS IMPRESSION

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!”