Noir Still Life: Bottles and Quiet Glass

Black vessels gather on a silent, pale plain, Their shadows bloom like ink that learns to breathe. A glass holds moonlight, carved from nothing’s sheen, While curves converse where sharpened outlines cleave. No clink is heard, yet still the table sings, In arcs of night that circle gentle light. Between the forms, a calm arrangement clings, And emptiness becomes the bright delight.