CRUMBGIVING
Only from our point of view as masters of the table
does the eater of crumbs glow with a terrible
loveliness.
He clings to our pity like a bat,
certainly. And a few, independent of the prince,
think that disgusting, our table his rafter.
They miss the light in his eyes when we bowl him
the crumb.
For a moment he sees it with the fullest glance, a baby’s,
his crumb beyond compare.
There is little else in his world but its hollows,
its rims,
bounding dreamily over the tablecloth like sagebrush.
From a distance he drinks the shadows in, facet by facet,
and SWELLS.
What a pleasure to hear us, the masters, counting “Two,
ah!, three”
until, lovingly, it’s his.
– Henry Braun
