Sintering

I have yet to become the bowl that can hold
without breaking; that, left out on the balcony,

would not get kicked into a corner or fall
without shattering on patio tile below.

So far I have opened to rain and the overflow
of what’s poured into me. The taste of salt

is a most familiar tonic. Sometimes I long to be
the flat and even surface of a dinner plate,

to be the forgettable saucer on the coffee table:
what doesn’t brim so much as to be unbearable.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Guest.

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