In the midst of our lifelike lifeI come to this fork in your hand —stainless silver, of appreciable weight —and I fully understand its pronginess,the bent of want, an expressive headand narrow neck spreadinglike a delta out to three strict parallels.You, the children, me.At some point the waiter broughtyour sea bass and the fork hovers overits seared arrangement of chainmail,its lips parted in surprise.Against the stiff table linenand sunlight on the knifeyour skin is caramel and scuffeda little whitely at the knuckles.A few veins give the skinits dark ridges and where each hairplants itself there is a small dentand crinkle in the flesh.If the situation is not stablenor sustainable,what I want to mention isif we did continue further in —into an atom of the fleshor the metallic fabric of the fork,the micro-weft of the tablecloth,it would be more or less the samekind of utter emptiness —as at the heart of any restaurantthere is this dead eyeof the sea bass on your plate,its aureole lens, its lightless pupilsunk flush as a thumb tack holdingthe universe itself in placeand I stare at it, and it stares back.