In stippled frost, a disk of
Moon is scratched
My city of black and white, of ink and air
True love of my quick-spending days
I will long for you until this
Orb recedes to outline
A line drawing of the fair desert
Frail in my bifocal lens
And I ask myself what home is
If, in space and time, it is
Living under the glass of my watch
Washing the feet of my friends
Or instead, where I spin love
Master potter in molting rooms with
Sticky tile, where we
Bleed our belief in indigo
Water and clay melt in my grip
Round us leaving mineral residue
Teaching me strength, eyes on the ball
Focusing my tone and
Tightening like a wire
Strung from peak to peak, diving
Noiselessly, ears cupping the wind-
Life is a field without a fence.
3 July 2009
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