Crapulous Impression

(To J.S.)     Still life, still life ... the high-lights shine     Hard and sharp on the bottles: the wine     Stands firmly solid in the glasses,     Smooth yellow ice, through which there passes     The lamp's bright pencil of down-struck light.     The fruits metallically gleam,     Globey in their heaped-up bowl,     And there are faces against the night     Of the outer room - faces that seem     Part of this still, still life ... they've lost their soul.     And amongst these frozen faces you smiled,     Surprised, surprisingly, like a child:     And out of the frozen welter of sound     Your voice came quietly, quietly.     "What about God?" you said. "I have found     Much to be said for Totality.     All, I take it, is God: God's all -     This bottle, for instance ..." I recall,     Dimly, that you took God by the neck -     God-in-the-bottle - and pushed Him across:     But I, without a moment's loss     Moved God-in-the-salt in front and shouted: "Check!"