There are languages beneath the words,
currents of meaning carrying the thin white foam along.
I sit silently at the dinner table,
unmoving yet never still,
following the step-by-steps:
not only of the words,
but also of the flick of eyes,
the strategic clink of forks on plates,
the just-in-time covering
of faces by napkins.
It's enough to make me wonder
if dinner really is only a time
for families to talk,
or if it's a time for separate
universes to come together,
a time for fragile shadow bridges
to be built
and for messages to be signed across,
unspoken but still received,
under the ceaseless gaze
of the watchers.