Clay

Some days are curved lines
and others are an edge.

Rain drums on the balconies
or washes the heads of stone 
angels in the garden.

Even a bone is soft
where it joins another. 

Slick a slab of clay, 
turn it on the wheel; 
formed and dried,  

some vessels steep only one 
flavor, committed to memory:

I don't mean to say 
they couldn't break or hold
anything against their nature.   

 

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