Blade imagines it has memories
(sad blade, so delusional).
Its hesitation, shyness, on the table
signals nothing. Or a mind
has moved it that way.
 

Blade is without conscience
riding beneath the table's edge--
no glint--
more shadow there than flash.
 

It slides easily
along an angerless morning.
It never propels the hand.
It knows the natures of string,
of apple, and peach,
and the stuck lock.