does clay,
whirled into porcelain,
miss
the trees it cradled
in the wilderness.

does a tongue
ever
taste itself.
bite,
blood,
rust is but
the memory of earth
on its lips.

feed the dust
to the kiln.
what the fire spits
was neither borrowed
nor yours
to lend.

cover the sun
with your fingertips.
part the rips
of the eclipse.

the wind lifts,
claims no treasure
nor guilt,
weighed into measure
by what resists.

how can an ocean,
stripped
of its bitter salt,
carry a ship,
when
it can preserve
no soul.

let the echo
of the mute
stretch the belly
of the flute.

let your rivers
dye the sea.
surrender,
baptised
by estuary.

breath by breath
against the ledge,
this ladder stands.
every step,
a cliff.

like a mountain
trapped in quicksand,
stand.

to find the start
of a stray thread,
hold
the frayed end.

be a flightless bird.
a precipice.

light upon light.
die before you die
so forever you may
live.

a lost star,
pinned
in the abyss,
is guide
when maps
go amiss.

for the moon to wash
its face in the rill,
water
must
be still.

keep the horizon far,
yet, no farther
than an eye
from its lid.