In the Closet of the Intellect

In the closet of the intellect, the plates balance;
each a perfect circle exclaiming, "pi, pi, pi."
Take down a fork and the trinity is explicated
by the parallel tines, which would never meet
even if they were extended into infinity. The salt
cellar confines the essence of seawater and blood,
both denatured into the exemplar of white, which contains
all colors; the cut glass shaker is a prism ready to set them free. 
Dinner services appear and vanish from the palimpsest tablecloth, 
always wiped clean—though a few sums linger
in the wine stain Uncle Theophile left last Thanksgiving.

Such order is beautiful to contemplate, every cocktail napkin
inhabiting its own space in the cupboard universe, no two
objects in the same place at the same time, light striking
the tumbler rims at its own particular speed. Passion
must never strew its strawberry hulls here, wipe 
its reeking feet on the right-angled folds of damask.
Only here and there a memory of love has tucked,
in a corner, the juicy pit of a peach, or the burst
honey balloon of a perfectly swollen ripe fig.

Cathy Thompson-Georges's Questions:

Attached is a poem in progress on which I would love some feedback.

In particular, i wonder whether the later part of the poem, when passion is introduced, fits well with the rest?

Also, any specific critiques on the choice of images and language would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you--and what a wonderful site!