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“What we bring”
A flick of wrist, the wine is poured—
not ceremonious, just sure.
Steam curls from the bowl,
not to vanish, but to linger.
Salt clings to the rim of glass,
like memory to a name.
You speak of oysters,
I nod toward the bread.
The waiter’s stride is practiced,
but it’s your pause between words
that seasons the evening.
No need for candlelight metaphors—
the room is lit by what we bring.
